


Zone 23

by AdurnaSkulblaka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2014, Horror, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-22 16:37:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 48,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2514590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdurnaSkulblaka/pseuds/AdurnaSkulblaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s life has always been grey. It’s the colour the skies should be to reflect the state of the planet; it’s the colour of the eyes that belong to the zombies, the dead that stagger among the living; it’s the colour he has associated with most things since the age of four. It takes a road trip across the Zones with his brother and a few wayward Angels to bring a little light back into the view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is also my farewell to the Supernatural fandom. I signed up to the challenge before I considered myself out of the fandom, but I'd worked so hard on this fic and felt that it would be a waste to give up on it. This, however, is the last thing I plan on writing for the SPN fandom. Gotta go out with a bang, right?

Dean’s life has always been grey. It’s the colour the skies should be to reflect the state of the planet; it’s the colour of the eyes that belong to the zombies, the dead that stagger among the living; it’s the colour he has associated with most things since the age of four.

Even now, nearing thirty, he can recall the bursts of colour from before then: the soft yellow of his mother’s hair, for example. He remembers all too easily bright flashes of orange and red and roiling black – fire and death, both of which consumed his mother days after what he later came to learn was the day the apocalypse was announced. John explained it to a four-year-old Dean with short, sharp words, his voice laden with a deep pain that the young boy never wanted to hear again. He’d wanted to cover his little brother’s ears, even if the baby hadn’t understood the words. 

Dean can’t remember the progression of a healthy, living Earth to the hellhole it is now. He was too young at the time, too concerned with trying to hold his family together with his small, still pudgy fists. John told him that it was a sudden thing: one moment, everyone seemed good and pure, and the next they were staggering through the streets and grabbing the first people they saw with exposed yellow teeth. 

It took a few months after Mary’s death for Dean to ask _why_. It was the stage that every child has where they want to know the workings of the world, the reasoning behind every decision, no matter how big or small. 

John had spared no details. 

Upon hearing the news of impending doom, some people had taken it upon themselves to purge those they deemed infected – by what, nobody knew, but according to the news reports it was contagious. This group, John said, had decided that their family was among the numbers that needed to die, and to make the job thorough, they’d tried to burn the house down. 

Mary never had a chance. Her last act had been to pass a bawling Sam to her husband – who then moved the baby into Dean’s arms, shouting an order of “Take your brother outside as fast as you can!” over the roar of the flames – and then Dean’s memory ran out. He never did get the full story out of his father; he was only told that he hadn’t been able to save Mary. 

The first time Dean saw a zombie, he was six. Sam had been just shy of two years old and stuck in the back of the Impala, eyes wide and terrified as a small pack of the creatures pressed against the windows. John had driven through them, mouth set in a grim line. 

Their eyes, regardless of their original colour, had dulled to a silvery grey. Their skin was mottled with bites where they’d turned on each other, hungry for something to fill their bellies, and as a result there had been blood smeared across their faces and wounds. They had made disturbing groaning sounds from deep within their chests as their prey got away. 

That night, Dean had had nightmares of those eyes and teeth taking Sam and John from him and leaving him alone. Little Sam had pressed himself against Dean’s side, aware even in sleep that he’d needed comfort. 

It took until Dean was eight for some kind of system to be established, and even now, a good twenty years later, he still considers it to be bullshit. 

Cities were – are still now – fenced off, made into ‘pure’ zones. Entering and leaving was forbidden unless there was a damn good reason from high up the new chain of command. The population was steadily controlled, as were the rations. Entertainment was limited to cards, books, and whatever radio signals they were lucky enough to pick up. Any person who wanted to help was trained up to go out on scouting missions – to find lost survivors or tend to the carefully placed farms, or even simply guard the clean areas. States don’t exist in America anymore; the names are forgotten, replaced with the numbered zones. 

John managed to gain access for himself and his sons to one of the quarantined zones. He joined the force of men and women, leaving Sam and Dean in the hands of a man named Bobby Singer, who was, apparently, an old friend. Dean had expected to see his father delighted upon finding him, but there was only something akin to satisfaction, a sentiment Bobby seemingly shared. 

For a time, the two young Winchesters had a stable life. Education was set up to re-establish some semblance of old life, so they even attended school. Dean preferred learning how cars worked in the garage Bobby had managed to get his hands on. John’s last command to Dean before he left was ‘look after your brother’; never once did he consider Dean’s own ambitions and wants. 

John’s visits were few and far between. He had risen fast in the ranks and now found himself in a commanding position, which demanded much of his life. When he was home, he divided what little time he had between drinking and teaching his boys how to aim a gun. Bobby had voiced his displeasure at this, but a thirteen-year-old Dean had been far too pleased with the idea of holding a real weapon in his hands to care. 

Soon enough, the time came for Dean’s sixteenth birthday. He would have received the Impala, but she was hidden away out in the world somewhere; cars weren’t allowed into the quarantine zones, and she would have been destroyed because of her likely contaminated outer shell, so John had hidden her away before they reached their new home. Instead of gaining a new car, he left school and joined the fighters, much to Bobby’s chagrin, which worsened when Sam joined in, too. 

The night before Dean had left, Sam had crawled into Dean’s bed, almost like he was two again. He’d curled up at his brother’s side and whispered, “I don’t want you to go.” 

Dean’s only reply had been a tight hug. He couldn’t explain how it felt right to wield a weapon and protect; Sam was a smart kid, he was clearly destined for better, bigger things. Maybe he’d become one of the leaders instead of a grunt like Dean. 

He’d started at the bottom, with his father so far up the ladder he couldn’t see him. But Dean was a hard worker and he was determined; he made it, eventually scrambling up high enough to have John as his commanding officer. The two went on missions together, saving people and hunting zombies. 

Until John never came back. 

***

The house is dark, the few candles Dean can see in the gloom unlit. It’s silent, too, which is just as well. He creeps through the darkness, searching for a door that will inevitably lead to a bedroom where, hopefully, his target is resting. 

It would be awkward if he has the wrong house. 

Dean barely has time to entertain the thought before he’s springing into action, reacting to something only his subconscious picked up: movement. After spending nearly ten years fighting zombies, Dean’s reactions are sharp and fast, much too quick for him to even think about. The people he’s spent this time with know better than to sneak up on him. He is, as they’ve said, a natural born fighter, but for one heart stopping moment, his opponent has him by the throat. 

It’s only when the culprit is pinned underneath him that he realises it’s his brother. He rolls off of him, grinning, and offers him a hand up. Sam doesn’t take it, as he’s too busy staring in surprise. 

“Dean?” he whispers. Sam’s hair is growing too long, Dean thinks, but that’s how it’s always been for civilians; those in the field cut theirs short so it can’t be grabbed, while those who have the choice keep it long, maybe out of some kind of spite. Dean has no idea. He never wanted flowing locks anyway. 

“Long time, no see,” Dean says as a greeting. Sam finally grasps his hand so Dean can haul him up to his feet, and he uses the momentum to pull his brother into a hug. 

Sam draws back, his hands moving to Dean’s shoulders. He ducks his head slightly because damn, when did he get so tall? Dean’s sure he was shorter the last time he saw him, which was- 

Shit. Years ago. He can’t even remember how many. 

“What are you doing here?” Sam asks. 

That’s when the reality sinks in again. Dean reaches up, hands on Sam’s wrists, and brushes his arms back down. “Dad went out on a mission, and it’s been days since he last checked in.” 

Sam moves back a step, his shoulders coming into contact with the wall behind him. “Dean.” It’s a warning, a plea to think again about asking a question Sam doesn’t want to answer. 

“They’re not going to send out a search party,” Dean continues. “They’re not gonna give up the resources. But I’ve got permission to go out and find him if I can get backup. I need a partner.” He shrugs, smiling wryly, and adds, “And I thought who better to ask?” 

Sam’s head shake is quick, jerky, and his eyes are a little wide with fear. “Dean- I can’t. I’m not a fighter.” 

“Really? ‘Cause you put up a pretty good fight. Who taught you?” Dean crosses his arms, eyebrows drawn together with faint irritation. He’d thought for sure that Sam would be on his side. Perhaps he’d been blinded by his desperate joy at spending time with his brother again. 

His brother averts his gaze, sighing heavily through his nose at being caught. “Bobby.” 

Of course. He’s a good teacher when he gets over his grumbling. “Can you shoot?” 

“I’ve been practicing.” 

“Then what’s the problem?” 

Sam raises his head; Dean can smell a challenge. “I’m happy here, Dean. I’m actually settled. I’ve got a job, a girlfriend-” 

“She hot?” 

“Yeah- Hey!” 

Dean snorts a laugh, holding his hands up in surrender. “My point is,” he sighs, “I don’t wanna go out there and risk dying. It’s not my thing.” 

His brief good mood fades as quickly as it had appeared. Dean takes a small step forward, which is when it becomes apparent just how tall Sam is: he has a good couple of inches on Dean, so he tries to make up for it in presence. “All I’m asking for is one mission,” he says - begs, really, not that he’d admit it. “Just one. Just to rescue Dad. Then you can come back to your apple pie life and I’ll go back to regular fighting.” 

Scared, twelve-year-old Sam flashes in his brother’s eyes again. “You’re going back?” 

“Where else am I gonna go?” Dean points out. 

“You could stay. Maybe you can settle down, too.” 

“I’m not that guy and you know it. Not while there’re zombies to kill.” 

Dean’s hope starts to drip away. He’s going to have to go back to his superiors and tell them that there’s no hope of recovering one of their best commanders. There’ll be some other dick to take over in John’s place, someone who will probably make the wrong decisions and Dean will inevitably rebel and end up getting thrown out for it. 

Sam’s settled with a girlfriend and a life, but Dean’s love is in protecting one of the last safe places in America. 

He backs off, falling back on the heels of his feet, deflated. “Sorry I bothered you,” he murmurs, turning to hop back out of the window he’d climbed in through. Bobby will probably kill him for that, considering it’s his house. 

“Wait.” 

Dean looks over his shoulder. “Yeah?” 

Sam seems uncertain but determined, which is an odd combination, Dean thinks. “I’ll do it. But just one mission, Dean, then I’m coming home.” 

Dean surges forwards, wrapping his arms around his brother again. “Sure thing. Thanks, Sammy.” 

There’s a soft laugh next to his ear as Sam pats his back. “It’s Sam. And no problem.” 

***

“How long will we be gone?” 

Sam looks up from his packing, concerned. Dean – who’s being incredibly unhelpful and just standing in the corner, watching him – shrugs. “No clue. We’ll have to find out where he was last and pick up from there. Why?” 

“Dude. Girlfriend and job, remember?” 

“Man, you got boring.” 

“No, I got sensible.” Dean knows that Sam’s rolling his eyes; that little habit has to have stayed the same, something that small can’t have changed about Sam, can it? 

“Yeah, well, time to get not… sensible…” Dean winces at his poor comeback. Sam snorts softly in amusement. He huffs and adds, “Shut up.” 

“Seriously, though.” Sam turns, hefting the small rucksack on his shoulder. Travelling light is the only option outside the Zones – Dean always thinks of the word ‘zone’ with a capital Z. “What am I supposed to tell Jess?” 

Dean assumes that ‘Jess’ is Sam’s girlfriend, as he hasn’t mentioned anyone else. However, given that Dean has little to no experience with long-term things – apart from that one time with Cassie back before he joined John, which became the deciding factor in their break-up – he has no idea what the protocol is. Since then, Dean’s only been part of flings, sharing his bed with men and women just for the pleasure of sex. 

“The truth?” he suggests, shrugging. 

“That I’m going on a crazy mission to find the dad I haven’t spoken properly to in years? Yeah, that’ll go down well.” 

Weirdly, Dean’s missed that bitchy expression. 

He hasn’t missed the tone that goes with it, though. It demands answers that Dean doesn’t have and so can’t give, and this time there’s no John or Bobby to smooth it over. 

He’s a grown man, damn it. He can handle this. 

“Yes,” he says firmly, “tell her that. What else is there to say? C’mon, man, you’re not gonna lie to your girlfriend, are you? What’s there to lie about?” 

Sam drops his bag, fear translating to anger and back again in his frame, making him look even bigger than he is already. Those couple of inches he has on Dean become even larger; he could tower over Dean if he wanted to. “The fact that I might not come back? Dean, you know as well as I do that two-man-missions are suicidal. Whatever happened to safety in numbers?” 

Sam might be taller but Dean’s bulkier, muscle grown from hard work and determination letting him offer more than enough challenge. “I wouldn’t even be asking you if I had another choice. D’you think I wanna put you at risk? You don’t know what it’s like out there, you don’t have any experience to work on.” 

“I have what Bobby’s taught me,” Sam shoots back, which just sends Dean’s thoughts skittering to a brief halt. When did Sam start fighting _for_ the right to go? 

His brother seems to realise the mistake he’s made. He deflates, shoulders slumping, returning him to the little brother he was minutes before. “I know it’s not much,” he says quietly, “but it’s better than nothing, right? I can’t let you go alone.” 

Another hug is totally justified. 

Dean feels Sam sink into it, pressing his face into his shoulder with a long, drawn out sigh. He squeezes his arms around Sam, like he can hold him in one piece. 

“I know I’m asking a lot,” Dean mutters, gently prying Sam off so he can make eye-contact. “So, thanks.” 

Sam tries to smile, the corners of his lips twitching up a little. “One stop, and then we can go.” 

Dean grins. “Let’s go kick some zombie ass.” 

But instead of kicking zombie ass, Dean finds himself standing outside Jess’ house, holding Sam’s bag while his brother says goodbye. He didn’t even get a look at her before the door shut behind his brother’s bulk. He wanted to see the girl that had managed to get her hooks in Sam so he could give the brotherly seal of approval. Maybe he’ll meet her when they come back. 

Dean’s due for some time off anyway. 

***

The gates out of this Zone – Zone 23 – are always guarded, and Dean suspects that they are for the others, too. He’s never actually properly visited any other Zone, unfortunately, so he can’t say whether it’s the same, but it’s common sense to imagine that they are.

He recognises the guards they meet. Dean raises his hand, lazily saluting the one on the left, who gives a rough laugh and comes forward to meet him. They hug, but it’s nothing like the hug he shared with Sam – this one is brief and full of backslapping. 

“Benny,” Dean says, withdrawing, “this is my little brother, Sam. Sam, Benny.” 

Dean’s friend tilts his head to the side slightly, his warm smile still in place. “I’ve heard a lot about you, y’know,” he drawls. “Sometimes Dean just wouldn’t shut up about ya.” 

Sam ducks his head, huffing a laugh. “There’s hardly much to tell.” 

“Oh, he found stuff to say. Mostly how smart y’are.” 

“Stop rattin’ me out,” Dean complains, shoving Benny’s shoulder. 

Benny laughs again. It’s a pleasant laugh, one that sounds like the rumble of a fine car. “Someone’s gotta put you in your place; God knows you give our guys enough trouble.” 

Dean shrugs, folding his arms. “Never liked authority.” 

“Then you picked the wrong career.” Benny sighs, hooking his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “I’m guessin’ you’re goin’ on this fool trip after all, huh?” 

At once, Dean’s cheerful mood is replaced by something more sombre. “I got no choice, Benny. Dad’s out there somewhere, I know it. We’ve gotta find him.” 

“You’re a whole new brand o’ crazy.” Shaking his head, Benny turns on his heel, gesturing for the two Winchesters. “C’mon, boys, I’ll show you to your equipment.” 

As Benny takes them to a building by the side of the gates, one that Dean knows contains four-by-fours and every weapon a soldier might need in the field, Sam picks up the conversation, curious. “They’re giving us supplies?” 

“They can’t let two healthy men go out without a fightin’ chance,” Benny replies, unlocking the door with a set of keys from his belt. “Just not enough numbers these days, so they give ‘em what they can and send ‘em on their merry way.” 

Upon entering, Dean heads straight over to the array of guns, knives, and various other pieces of weaponry on a table on the right, selecting the ones he’s most comfortable with. He helps himself to a duffel bag from underneath and starts to fill it. “Pick out what you know you can use, Sammy,” Dean calls, his voice echoing in the large, warehouse-like building. “Only what you know you’ll be able to pull off, none of the fancy crap you’d just like to try.” 

“Which o’ the gals you gonna take out?” Benny asks, standing a few metres back. He gestures to the cars on the opposite side of the room. “I’ll go get her ready.” 

“Make it Bessie. None of the others agree with me.” 

“Aye, aye, cap’n.” 

Benny’s footsteps clomp across the stone floor as he crosses over to the other side. Sam quirks an eyebrow at Dean, grinning. “‘Gals’?” he questions. 

“Cars,” Dean supplies. “They’ve all got names. I dunno where they came from, they all just sort of stuck. Bessie’s the only one that likes me. Every time I’ve tried to drive one of the others, something’s broken.” He shrugs, reaching for ammunition to match a shotgun. “Mind you, they’re old pieces of crap anyway. I’ve offered to take a look at ‘em, but the higher-ups are tryin’ to find more experienced mechanics.” 

He zips up the bag, dusting off his hands. “Alright, now we’ve gotta get food and water. Odds are we’re not gonna find much that’s not poison out there.” Dean hooks another duffel over his shoulder and marches over to a set of cupboards and fridges tucked in the corner, tossing “Get another bag” over his shoulder. 

“Normally, we wouldn’t take this much unless it was supposed to be a long mission,” he says, dropping tins in the bag, “but ‘cause I dunno how long this is gonna last, it’s better to be safe than sorry. When these start to run out, we’ll have to come back.” 

The only reason Dean keeps explaining everything is because he can tell that Sam wants to know it all. Whenever he speaks, Sam watches him silently, drinking in the information like Dean knows the answers to the universe. 

He really doesn’t, which is why it unsettles him. 

Benny joins them again, already carrying their weapons bag and rucksacks filled with clothing. “She’s all ready,” he says. “I filled her tank up all the way, since I wasn’t sure how far you’re goin’.” 

“Zone 20 is where we last heard from him.” Dean closes his bag and starts for Bessie, Sam and Benny either side of him. “But it all depends on whether he hung around or not. It’s been days; he could be out of reach by now.” 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d gone and made himself a base,” Benny chuckles. “Sounds like the kinda thing your daddy would do. Those zombies wouldn’t know what hit ‘em.” 

“They never do.” Dean pops open Bessie’s trunk, tossing in his bag of rations. Sam and Benny do the same, the former arranging them carefully so nothing is crushed. Unzipping the one containing their firearms, Dean takes out two handguns. He loads them both, then holds one out to Sam, grip first. “Whatever you do, don’t put this down. Keep it on you at all times, okay?” 

“Got it.” Sam tucks it into his waistband, letting the edge of his shirt hang over it. 

Dean claps him on the shoulder with one hand while he closes the trunk with the other. “You’re gonna be watching for any of the bastards sneakin’ up on us, alright? Don’t bother shooting unless they’re too close for comfort. We don’t wanna end up having to get rid of Bessie.” 

Benny pats the car’s side, running his hand along her dark green paint wistfully. “It’d be a cryin’ shame to lose the old gal. “I better not heard you’ve been mistreatin’ her when you get back.” 

“We’ll look after her,” Sam assures him, offering Benny a small smile. “Don’t worry.” 

Benny shakes his head, sighing tiredly. “Always worry, boy. If you’re not worryin’, you’re gonna end up bitten.” 

He said something similar to Dean when he joined, just after they first met, so it’s a mantra Dean has often repeated to himself over the years when he gets too numb to the fighting. With those words of wisdom, Dean pushes Sam gently in the direction of the passenger side door. Thankfully, Sam gets the message: Dean wants a moment to say goodbye to his friend. He waits until he hears the door shutting to speak. 

Before he can get a word out, Benny hugs him again, but this one’s different to the one he greeted Dean with: it’s warm, comforting, and maybe Dean lets himself sink into it a little bit. Nobody really needs to know if he does or doesn’t. 

Benny pulls back first, setting his hands on Dean’s shoulders. “I’m gonna miss you, brother,” he says softly. “You’d better come back, you hear? It’s gonna be mighty dull ‘round here without you to brighten up the place.” 

Dean shrugs his hands off, trying for nonchalant. “I always come back, Benny.” 

“It’s pretty magical,” he agrees. “You’re one crazy bastard, Dean Winchester-” 

“But I get the job done,” he finishes, grinning. It’s a phrase that has been uttered by many of the other soldiers over the past ten years, especially after Dean proved himself to them. It stems from the fact that when he chooses to show his genius, his plans are often deemed impossible, but they somehow still turn out perfectly with the desired result. 

Dean pulls open the driver’s side door, planting his foot on the step. “See you around.” 

Benny tips his invisible hat to Dean before moving away to open the first of several sets of doors for Bessie. 

She crawls out into the first bay, where Dean puts her in park to wait for a warden to come over. He digs out his ID in preparation for this, so he doesn’t see the thoughtful look Sam gives him. 

“You and Benny close?” he asks, cautious. 

“Yeah. We’ve been friends ever since we met in training.” The warden that comes over is a pretty woman, one that Dean has unfortunately been kicked in the shin by when he flirted with her. 

He flashes his ID at her and she nods, gesturing with her rifle for them to go through to the next area. The IDs are simple things, bits of laminated paper with the resources everyone’s just managed to get together used for them. It contains only a few pieces of information, but it’s necessary for Dean to get him and Sam in and out of the Zones. 

> __
> 
> Name: Dean Winchester. 
> 
> __
> 
> Status: Clean.
> 
> __
> 
> Zone: 23
> 
> __

The first two things – his name and his status – are all anyone’s interested in. 

Sam clears his throat, peering out of the windows with feigned interested. “So you two aren’t…?” 

Dean almost hits the gas in surprise. It’s only by some miracle that he manages to keep from flooring the men spraying Bessie down. “No! Jesus, no. Me and Benny are just friends.” 

“Of course, of course,” Sam agrees, nodding quickly. “Just figured, uh. Just wanted to check.” 

“I don’t... I don’t _do_ long-term things,” Dean adds. “Not now. Never found anyone worth it, you know? Just one night things these days.” 

As if the universe wants to prove his point, one of the men knocks at his window and smiles at Dean, jerking a thumb towards the gates. He winks at him, very obviously. Dean suppresses his cringe and pulls out. 

“Slept with him?” Sam asks. Dean can hear the slight tremble of laughter in his voice. Damn it. 

“Yeah.” 

The last bay is one that holds other cars waiting to leave. Once there is a sufficient number, the last gates will be opened and they’ll be outside. 

That thought doesn’t throw Sam off of his current thought track, though, much to Dean’s irritation. “Dude, have you slept with everyone _but_ Benny?” 

“No!” Dean swivels in his seat to point a glare at his brother. “I’m a grown man, asshole. I can control myself. Just- I’m not gonna turn anyone down if they’re lookin’ for a good time. Nothing wrong with that.” 

“Whatever lets you sleep at night.” Looking entirely too satisfied for Dean’s liking, Sam turns his gaze back out of the window again. His lips are still turned up at the corner with a smile, though. Dean growls wordlessly and faces the front once more. 

When it becomes apparent that they’re not going anywhere anytime soon, Dean turns off the engine to conserve their fuel. He starts drumming his fingers randomly on the wheel, pre-mission jitters getting the better of him at last; no matter how long they take to turn up, they _will_ come, he’s learned. 

So, to pass the time, he asks, “Nervous?” 

“A little,” Sam admits. “I haven’t been outside since we first came here. I remember the zombies, though.” 

Dean’s surprised. Sam was so young at the time, he expected him to forget. “You do?” 

“Yeah.” Sam puffs out a breath forcefully, shaking his head minutely. “I can always remember the sound.” 

Groans and thumping against car windows. Dean’s guilt rises when he realises he’s subjecting Sam to one of the fears he knows he must still have; he’d soothed Sam after nightmares of them when they were children, listening to his babbled explanations: glass shattering, zombies piling in, killing him and John while Sam watched. 

It’s why Dean reaches over, clasping Sam’s forearm and squeezing tightly. “It’ll be okay. As long as we’re careful, we’ll be fine. If we don’t find him, we’ll come back and… and I’ll call it quits for Dad.” 

Sam turns his hand over so he can grasp Dean’s sleeve, his mouth just forming his brother’s name, but there’s no time to exchange any other words. The ancient gates are clattering open, cars pouring out onto the dirt roads ahead, so Dean withdraws and starts Bessie up again. 

Dean doesn’t think about how comfortable he feels driving out into the infected parts of America. All he knows is that he feels good like this: moving, a gun in his hand, killing the monsters that tore his home away, and protecting those still alive. 

***

Nothing happens on their first day and night. They simply drive, following the road, watching the other cars disappear one by one in different directions. Conversation is sparing, merely little bits and pieces of information traded so they can really catch up on what they’ve missed of each other. 

Dean doesn’t have much to tell, other than promise Sam some stories of his missions when there’s more time to concentrate. Sam, on the other hand, spends half an hour describing his current life to Dean: how he met Jess, how he gained his job (he turns out to be a researcher in their Zone), how he spends his time with Bobby. Dean feels a little jealous for what he has, but he supposes it’s his own fault for leaping into fighting so early in his life. 

When he notices that the afternoon is drawing to a close, making way for night, Dean begins to get nervous. They’ve made good ground for Zone 20 for one day – they’re near the border to Zone 22, in fact, another area that civilisation had left – so he decides it’s about time they find somewhere suitable to sleep. 

Normally, Dean would switch with someone on his team and sleep in Bessie’s back, but Sam won’t know the area or the protocols like Dean does. Hopefully, he’ll pick it up when Dean brings them into action. 

He pulls a map out from the pocket of his door, holding it out to Sam. “Find one of the marked buildings that’s not too far from here. We’ll stay there for the night.” 

Paper rustles as Sam opens the map, spreading it out in front of him. “Huh, that’s pretty cool,” he comments. “How long did it take to get these bases set up?” 

“Not too long. Once you’ve done one, it gets easier and quicker, you know?” With Sam distracted, Dean keeps a sharper eye out for any packs of zombies. They’re always in packs; it’s very rare that he’ll come across a lone one, which is why missions are so often done in groups. 

“It’s smart.” There’s a pause, and then Sam adds, “Take the next left. There’s one there.” 

It’s only another ten minutes before they’re pulling up outside an old family home. For now, the outside is still clear of zombies, which gives Sam the time to hop out and open up the garage door so Dean can store Bessie inside. The front door – and, Dean hopes, the back one – are boarded up; he checks that as soon as they set foot inside, and it is, along with the ground floor windows. 

Dean knows that there’s some food stocked somewhere, probably the kitchen, but he has no idea if it’s kept. In the first few weeks after the apocalypse began, the power shut off, he’s been told. He barely remembers what electricity was like. All Dean knows is living by candlelight, reading and playing card games for entertainment. The generators are used solely for those in power, and mostly for the more important military operations, none of which Dean has access to. 

Dean starts up a fire in the grate he finds in the living room while Sam collects pots and pans from the kitchen. Together, they cook a small meal with what they have, rationing themselves so they can spend as long as possible looking for John. 

Sleep is another matter altogether. 

“I’ll be on watch first,” Dean announces as he finishes drying their plates. 

Next to him, Sam takes the plates to put back in the cupboards. “No way, man, you drove all day. I’ll take first watch.” 

“Excuse you, I’m the guy who knows what he’s doing out here.” Pushing off from the counter, Dean paces over to the weapons bag. He switches the pistol on his belt for a shotgun. 

Sam shuts the cupboard, folding his arms. “I’m not gonna learn by sleeping.” 

There’s a sharp click as Dean loads the shotgun. “Then we’ll both stay up and be tired.” 

“Or we both stay awake for the first half of the night, then you sleep and I’ll rest in the car tomorrow,” Sam offers. “Don’t be an ass about this. I can handle it.” 

Dean pauses, hand hovering over another handful of shells. He wiggles his fingers slightly, debating, and then curls his fingers into a fist and lets it fall back to his side. “Fine. Okay. If you see anything though, you wake me up so we can get the hell outta Dodge, okay?” 

He feels more than sees Sam join him, reaching to load his own gun. As far as Dean’s aware, Sam sticks with his handgun. “Got it.” 

They have to go upstairs so they can actually see out onto the streets. They choose the master bedroom with its large (and comfortable looking, Dean thinks wistfully) bed and desk. They move the latter so they can sit on it and look outside. 

The silence this time is total. It’s not like it was in the car, interrupted by idle chatter; now it’s pressing, forcing them into saying nothing for fear that any tiny bit of noise might attract a pack. All the movement they see is the moon across the sky. Sam shoos Dean over to the bed as soon as it hits midnight, and he goes while playing at being grudging, when in fact he’s out as soon as his face hits the pillows. 

The next thing he knows, Sam’s shaking him awake. He grumbles, lifting a hand to bat at his. “What?” he growls, blinking furiously. 

Sam’s crouched next to the bed, eyes wide. Dean can see the fear in them, can feel it in the insistent way Sam grabs at Dean’s sleeve. “They’re outside,” he hisses. “A whole pack.” 

“Shit.” Dean bolts to his feet, reaching for the shotgun, which he left on the bedside table. He takes it to the window as he looks outside. 

Dawn is just peeking over the horizon, casting an orange glow across everything. Below, lingering in the streets, is indeed a pack of zombies. They stumble into each other, what little clothing few of them have hanging off of them in strips from the repetitive clawing they’ve suffered from their own kind. They can clearly smell the disturbance Bessie has left behind, which is the only explanation Dean has for them being here; they only follow potential food sources. 

“Son of a bitch,” he breathes, as if the previous swearing wasn’t enough. 

“What now?” Sam asks. 

Dean sighs, scrubbing a hand across his face. Stubble’s growing on his chin already. “We wait it out. If they’re not gone by midday, we’ll have to take ‘em out from up here and then drive as fast as we can before others come.” He pauses, gaze travelling to Sam. “I don’t need to tell you to stay quiet, do I?” 

Sam shakes his head, exhaling softly through his nose. Dean knows that even with his expertise and authoritative attitude, Sam’s still worried underneath the apparent calmness that has settled; he might not have any experience to draw on concerning relationships, but it’s blatantly obvious that Sam’s finally facing the reality that he might not make it back to Jess. 

So he does the only thing he can. He slaps his shoulder and smiles. “It’s gonna be okay, Sammy. C’mon, let’s go grab the bags and bring ‘em up here so we’ve got everything we need.” 

Moving their bags upstairs means that they won’t lose anything if the zombies find a way in. They make the bedroom their base, keeping everything within easy reach, and pass the morning without speaking. It’s long and would be boring if they didn’t have the thought of the zombies keeping them on their toes, but Dean’s spent longer than this in the same situation so it’s familiar to him. 

By some miracle, they’ve wandered away by the time the sun is up. Overall, Dean estimates that he got maybe three hours of sleep, four maximum. As they troop downstairs with their stuff, he notices that Sam tries to swallow a yawn, but ends up covering his mouth with his wrist instead. 

“As soon as we’re away, you’re sleeping,” Dean says firmly. “No arguments. You need it. I’m used to little sleep, you’re not.” 

“D’you hear me complaining?” Sam replies. He elbows open the door to the garage, heading over to Bessie’s trunk. He opens her up and puts his stuff inside first, then moves aside for Dean. 

He slides behind the driver’s wheel, patting Bessie’s dash as he greets her, while waiting for Sam to open the garage door. “Good to see you’re still waiting here, girl,” Dean murmurs. She crawls out onto the drive, and as soon as Sam’s in the passenger side, Dean heads back out to pick up where they left off. 

***

The same pattern follows for several days. Dean’s familiar with this kind of tedium, but it still gets under his skin, making it itch and crawl with the need to do something. Hell, he’d even take on a pack of zombies right now. Sam doesn’t share the sentiment. 

By the time they reach Zone 21 on the third day of their travels, his brother is subdued and clearly missing his home. Dean finds it a little hard to sympathise, given that his home is out on the road, but he tries to be nice for Sam’s sake. He wants to cheer him up so this memory is a good one, one they’ll look back on in several years and laugh about _That One Time Dad Went Missing_ , but Dean doesn’t know how he can improve Sam’s mood. 

He assumes that talking about Zone 23 will sadden him further. Discussing what they’ll do when they find Dad is, perhaps, a topic he can bring up, but there isn’t much to it. 

One of Dean’s pet hates is feeling helpless, which is how he feels now. 

***

Day seven brings Dean’s attention to their dwindling food supplies, but they’re on the border between Zones 21 and 20 now, so it would be foolish to turn back. He makes them stop at one of the safe buildings just on the edge so they can pick up the food that’s there and stock up with what little they can get their hands on. While they’re there, Dean adds the building to his growing list of visits so he can alert his superiors when he returns; they’ll need to be refilled for future missions. 

However, their need for food brings them to their current situation. 

The building – what used to be a diner – is a hotspot for zombies. They swarm to it, perhaps recalling that it was once popular among the living, in the hope that they’ll find something to chomp on. Sam and Dean managed to slip in during a gap in the packs, and now the diner is surrounded. The zombies caught their fresh scents and decided to make them their next meal. 

They’ve settled on the kitchen as their base for the moment, as there are several exits and various improvised weapons available, such as knives and pans. Thankfully, the zombies haven’t yet found the back entrance, but they still need to return to the front so they can retrace their steps to Bessie. 

Dean peeks through the circular window in the door that leads to the seating area, his hands gripped tightly around the same shotgun he’d had on their first stop. “They’re at the door,” he murmurs. “They’re not in yet. We’ve got time-” 

“Dean.” 

Sam’s voice is small, barely above a whisper, and it reminds Dean of a frightened child. It makes him pause to think about the fact that Sam’s _seen_ zombies, but never actually fought them. He’s had other people to protect him when they arrive. 

Dean has never abandoned his post once, not until he was ordered. Of course, he’s in charge now, so he growls and darts over to his brother’s side even though every instinct screams at him to go back and wait by the door. 

Even in his fear, Sam’s position is defensive. He’s crouched, fingers wrapped around his rifle correctly, and yet the terror in his expression lets Dean know that he’ll be a crap shot if he tries. Right now, he’s what his superiors would call a liability, ‘better off as a civilian’. 

He’s all the backup Dean has. 

He elbows Sam in the side, lowering his voice to a hiss as he tries to keep listening to the zombies. “Sam, you okay?” 

Sam shakes his head very slowly from left to right. “I can’t.” 

“You can,” Dean counters. It’s a simple argument, but he hopes it’ll get through to him. “You’ve gotta snap out of it, man. I need you here.” 

“Dean, they’ll _get_ us.” 

There isn’t the _time_ for this! Dean can hear the slamming of dead fists against the door, the groaning of both the creatures and the wood slowly buckling under their weight, and it makes his blood sing. 

“Look, I know it sucks,” Dean says quickly, making this up as he goes along. “Believe me, I know. But you’ve gotta trust me when I say it’ll be worse if you freeze up. I need you to man up and gun ‘em down with me. It’s as easy as shootin’ cans off of boxes in Bobby’s yard, you’ll see.” 

Sam smiles weakly. “Except they’ll kill us if we miss.” 

“Better get it right, then.” Dean pats his arm, exhaling slowly. “C’mon. Dad needs us.” 

Finally – fucking finally – Sam nods. “Yeah. Okay.” 

Dean could cry with relief. He swallows back the joyous shout and steps lightly back to his position. 

The zombies are in. 

They’re lingering in the doorway, heads bobbing and weaving as they scent the air, attempting to locate the trail their prey has left. Dean can hear their grunts and groans that pass as communication; while they are, ultimately, selfish creatures, they work together to get food. Of course, as soon as there’s meat in front of them, they’ll fight each other to get the best bits. Dean’s seen it happen with his own eyes. 

“They’re inside,” Dean informs Sam. “How’s it lookin’ your end?” 

There’s a pause before Sam speaks. “Clear.” 

“D’you know if there’s an alley ‘round the side we can use?” 

“Probably. There’s gotta be a reason for the back door, hasn’t there?” 

Dean readies his shotgun, the click far too loud for his liking. A zombie pauses, cocking its ugly head. 

“Worth a shot?” 

“If it’s a dead end, we’re in a corner anyway,” Sam points out. 

“True,” Dean concedes. “C’mon, let’s do it. We’re gonna run.” 

Suddenly, Sam’s by his side, a hand landing on his forearm. “Are you crazy?” he demands, words little more than a hiss of _‘rrr-you-krzy?’_ as he tries not to raise his voice. “They could be at the other end!” 

“If they are, we’re cornered,” Dean says, repeating Sam’s words. “At least these doors’ll slow ‘em down. We can fight our way out if we have to.” When Sam doesn’t look convinced, Dean adds, “Are you with me or not?” 

There’s no hesitation. “I’m with you.” 

Dean nods. He casts one look back out into the dining area, and his stomach drops. The zombie that heard his gun has stumbled a few paces closer to the door, and a few others are looking in the same direction. Dean pushes Sam’s shoulder, forcing him towards their only exit. “Then let’s get outta here.” 

Sam nods, and Dean’s caught somewhere between pleased and worried as he sees him slip out of being his scared brother and into something more hardened. It isn’t quite the expression of a soldier waiting to go into battle, but it’s nearing it. Dean considers dragging a table in front of the door before they leave, then gives up on the idea when he realises it would create unnecessary noise. 

The door opens with a soft creak. Dean winces, gaze flicking back to the door. The sounds of the zombies have lowered somewhat, which means one of two things: they’re gone or they know where they are. 

Sam’s already outside, looking back and forth to check out the area. He lifts a hand and waves it forwards, indicating it’s safe. Privately, Dean thinks that Sam would suit this job nicely if only he could bring himself to admit it; Dean knows for a fact that Sam will be grateful for his brother’s presence, but he’ll also resent him slightly for getting him to face his worst fear in the first place. 

The door leads out onto a little alley, as predicted. The side on the left is fenced off and the other supposedly wraps around the diner to the front. Dean would suggest climbing the fence, but it’s topped with barbed wire and Bessie’s back the way they came. They can’t get anywhere without her. 

Dean takes the lead again, gesturing for Sam to close the way they came through while he shuffles forward. He peeks around the corner, seeing what they have to work with. 

There’s a dumpster about halfway down the alley – he can’t tell if there’s anything in it from here – and a trashcan at the end, the lid sat on the top wonkily. 

And zombies. To Dean, it’s a fairly small pack, but to Sam it must look like all of the zombies in existence are here. 

“Shit,” Sam breathes from just behind him. Dean’s not sure if he’s imagining it, but he feels a faint tremble from him, too. “What now?” 

“Now we get as far forward as we can, then I’ll start shootin’ to hold ‘em off and you make a run for Bessie,” Dean whispers. 

“You’ll get yourself killed!” Sam protests. 

“I’ve done crazier. You got a better plan?” 

Silence. 

“On three,” Dean prompts. It’s as clear as it’s ever going to get at the end of the alley, so why should they wait? They need to get out of here before they’re trapped from both sides. 

“One.” 

Sam inhales and exhales very deliberately. 

“Two.” 

Down at the opposite end of the alley, a zombie almost trips over a tumble of bricks. 

“Three.” 

They don’t pelt it down the alley, as that would only draw attention. No, they quickly and quietly crouch-run the length of it, aiming for the dumpster as cover. With a few quick gestures, Dean tells Sam that he’ll stand on it and, when he’s running, he’ll start firing to cover him in the awkward gap at the end. Sam gives him a thumbs-up of understanding. 

Dean swings himself up onto the dumpster’s lid, flinching when the metal whines under his weight. The zombies hanging at the back of the group swing their heads around to them, grey eyes fixing on them in an instant. They open their mouths, razor-yellow teeth exposed, and screech. 

“No time! ” Dean shouts, pushing Sam in the shoulder. His brother breaks into a sprint, long legs eating up the distance. 

Meanwhile, Dean lifts his shotgun and begins taking out the zombies that get too close to Sam for comfort. One after another, they drop, hitting the ground with dull thuds. Decomposed matter sprays out from his bullets; if he was close enough, he’d be hit with it, which has happened before. Luckily, none of it has ever touched his skin. 

Sam slides out of view on the corner, darting away and out of sight. A little bit of relief curls through Dean. As long as Sam’s okay, he’s satisfied. He hopes his brother won’t be stupid enough to try and rescue him if it’s clear he’s not going to make it. He’ll only kill himself in the process, and he needs to go home to his girlfriend and his life and his job. 

After all, someone should get a happy ending. 

The remaining zombies are turning towards him now, sensing a challenge but also the promise of fresh meat if they can get their hands on him, and even for someone as experienced as him it’s difficult to hold them back when they’re determined. He needs several people behind him for that. And the thing is, unless he gets a headshot on the zombies, they’ll pick themselves up again – or crawl, or drag themselves across the floor – to get to him. 

For a split second, Dean doesn’t think he’s going to survive this. 

And then, thank God, he hears Bessie’s engine. Sam does quite a risky thing in driving right into the zombies pouring into the alley; Bessie will have to be cleaned thoroughly upon their return, if she’s not destroyed. 

He pulls her to a halt so he can take aim with the rifle he was holding when he ran off, and Sam starts pouring bullets into the pack still straining to reach Dean. They turn on the spot, confused, as they’re attacked from both sides. Instead of Sam and Dean trapped in the middle as they’d feared, it’s the zombies. 

Soon enough, they’re all on the floor, dead, or as close as they can be to it. Dean’s laughing as he hops down from his perch to pick his way across the battlefield. “That,” he says when Sam is in earshot, “was awesome.” 

Apparently, Sam doesn’t think it was awesome, because the first thing out of his mouth is, “Are you serious?! They _had_ you there! If I’d been any later, you’d be dead!” 

“I could’ve escaped through the front,” he replies, jerking his thumb back the way he came. 

“Uh, no, you couldn’t, because it’s still crawling with zombies in there.” It’s a bitchy face that Sam directs at him as he steers Dean towards Bessie, urging him to get in behind the wheel. “Let’s go before they come after us.” 

It is, admittedly, a relief to be back on familiar ground. Dean pats Bessie’s seats as he closes the door, murmuring, “Thanks, girl.” 

Dean wastes no time in hitting the gas as soon as Sam’s shut his door, as he can see a couple of zombies in the mirror and he doesn’t like the way they’re watching the car hungrily. 

He glances at Sam as they finally reach the border to Zone 20; his brother is watching the landscape pass outside the window, his chin perched in his hand. Dean turns his gaze forward again, then, subtly, leans over to elbow Sam’s arm. “Thanks, Sammy,” he says quietly. 

Sam smiles. It’s small, almost non-existent, but it’s there and it’s enough for him. 

***

That night, Sam has nightmares. They’re holed up in a library just inside the border of Zone 20 and Dean’s taking the first watch while Sam sleeps on the old, torn pillows left in the kids’ corner. 

Because he’s busy patrolling the perimeter of their room, softly treading over the dirty carpet, Dean doesn’t notice at first. He doesn’t see the twitches that signal his disturbed sleep, nor the slowly scrunching expression on his face as the nightmare curls in its hooks. It’s only when Sam begins to make noises – little whimpers of fear – that Dean pauses, cocking his head. 

There’s a very quiet sob. 

Dean moves quickly back over to his brother, falling to his knees next to him and unhooking his pistol from his waistband, setting it on the floor so it’s within easy reach. Then he takes Sam by the shoulders, shaking him a little. “Sammy?” When all he gets is another heart-wrenching whine, he firmly says “Sam!” with another sharp shake. 

It seems to have done the trick. Sam opens his eyes, a few tears tracking down his cheeks now that they’re open. “Dean…?” he mumbles, hands already reaching for him and curling into either side of his jacket. 

Dean gathers him close, cradling the back of Sam’s head with one hand like he would if he was still a baby. “Right here, little brother,” he replies. 

Sam’s sob wracks his entire frame, rattling both of them, and Dean feels hot tears on his neck from where Sam has his face pressed into it. “It was them,” he forces out. “The zombies. They had Jess, oh, God, she was _screaming_ and I couldn’t-” 

“Hey,” Dean interrupts, giving him a slight squeeze. “She’s okay. She’s fine, I promise.” 

“-help her,” Sam finishes. He sniffs weakly, shaking his head against Dean’s shoulder, like he can forget he ever saw such an image simply by wishing it didn’t happen. 

Dean plants his hands on Sam’s upper arms and pushes him back, holding him upright. When Sam meets his gaze, his eyes are bloodshot and tired, still hazy from sleep. “She’s fine,” Dean insists, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We’re fine. Zone 23’s fine. We’re all _fine_.” 

Sam huffs a laugh, one without humour. “You can’t promise that.” 

“Yeah, I can.” Dean sighs, sitting down next to him and crossing his legs. “Y’know, if you want, we can go back. I was an asshole to drag you out here anyway-” 

But Sam shakes his head again, his smile almost pitying. “We can’t go back now. We’re about to find Dad, and you’re seriously considering giving up?” 

“It’s my job to look after you,” Dean says, poking Sam’s arm, “so if you wanna go back, we’ll go back. If Dad can, he’ll find a way to get back himself.” 

Dean considers himself quite the master at reading his brother’s emotions and thoughts through his face – and vice versa, he expects; he and Sam have always been incredibly open with each other – but he honestly can’t tell what passes through his head at this moment. He sees the thought, he watches it flicker in Sam’s eyes, but he can’t tell what it means. 

Whatever it is, it makes up his mind. He exhales, lips turning down at the corners. “Let’s carry on.” 

As much as Dean wants to send them both back home, he respects Sam’s decision for now with a nod. “Okay. You wanna sleep anymore?” 

He feels Sam’s shudder against his arm. “No. Let’s just- go.” 

And so they pack up and drive off, continuing into Zone 20. Dean doesn’t get a wink of sleep that night, and without the means to make coffee, he regrets it. However, he’s had longer without sleep, so he considers it a small price to pay for comforting Sam. 

***

Sam, on the other hand, is still learning to take the short nights. He drifts off while Dean’s driving, his head drooping towards his shoulder. 

It’s a beautiful opportunity. 

Taking a plastic spoon from their last meal, Dean carefully leans over, balancing his attention between the road and Sam. He places the dipped end of the spoon in Sam’s mouth, wiggling it gently to get it between his teeth. 

Sam must be more awake than he thought, because as soon as he lets go the spoon slips and his brother starts up, flapping his hands and reaching for the gun at his belt – which, Dean is pleased to note, he has never taken away, as he told him to back at the beginning of the week. 

“Seriously?” he demands over Dean’s laughter. “You’re really gonna start this crap up again?” 

Dean, too busy sniggering, can’t answer beyond, “You should’a seen your face. Man I wish I had a camera.” 

“Pranking?” Sam demands. “You know it always escalates, and now’s really not the time, considering.” He gestures out around them, indicating the broken down buildings and barren streets. 

Dean casts a sidelong look at him, raising an eyebrow. “You’re just scared you’re gonna lose.” 

There’s a long silence. Dean starts to grin, knowing he’s already won this one. “You ass,” Sam mutters. “Fine, fine! But not until we get back, okay? I’m not pulling any pranks while we’re on the road.” 

***

Dean thinks he has every right to be pissed when Sam doesn’t keep his promise. Then again, it was stupid to let his guard down for even a second. 

Sam hands Dean his flask, filled with freshly purified water, which Dean takes with an indecent groan. He’s been thirsty for the past God-knows-how-many miles, but they haven’t been able to find a water source until now. Dean unscrews the cap and takes a few greedy gulps to slake his thirst. 

“Ah, beautiful,” he sighs, wiping his mouth with the back of his other hand. “You,” he says, pointing at Sam, “are an angel in disguise.” He puts the cap back on and throws the bottle in the back, in the direction of his bag. 

Or so he thinks until he lifts his hand to shut the door and finds the bottle still there, his fingers still curled around it. Frowning, Dean flexes his hand; his muscles are all in working order, so why can’t he drop-? 

He looks up at Sam, shocked. “You didn’t.” 

Sam’s lips twitch as he tries to hold back laughter. He raises a half-used tube of superglue, a grin breaking out across his lips. “Oh, I did.” 

And then the bastard laughs. It’s proper laughter, too, the kind where he bends over with his hands on his knees and wheezes for breath. Of course, Dean’s secretly pleased to see Sam laughing, but that doesn’t change the fact that he has _a bottle stuck to his hand_ , and where did Sam even _get_ the superglue? 

“Son of a bitch,” he hisses. 

***

“I don’t think there’s any skin left on my hand,” Dean grumbles, scowling as he looks down at his reddened palm. 

“Aw.” Ignoring his brother’s complaints, Sam reaches over and ruffles his hair, snorting a laugh. Dean bats him off, actually growling and baring his teeth. 

“I’ll get you back,” he promises. 

“I know. And it’s gonna be bad, because you don’t just sit down when there’s a pranking war.” Sam chuckles and adds, “Or they’re just gonna get childish.” 

“You try being imaginative when you’ve got limited supplies,” Dean retorts. Damn it, Sam got his dominant hand, too. 

“You could always say ‘uncle’.” 

Dean _really_ doesn’t like how blasé Sam is about this. It’s like he’s got some kind of safety net, or something. 

“Fuck you,” he spits out. 

Sam’s sniggers turn into full-scale laughter again. 

***

Dean doesn’t have time for revenge between actually finding John and remembering things from his childhood that make his stomach lurch uncomfortably. 

They pass through a town that Dean remembers clearly. It’s where they settled down once, managing to stay for a week before the zombies came too close for John to be comfortable again. Their father went out with the intention of taking out as many as possible, leaving ten-year-old Dean to fend for little Sam for a day or two. 

It was nothing new; Dean had spent longer than two days looking after Sam before. This time, however, they could see the zombies if they looked out of their motel room window, and there was little food. He sacrificed his own meal so Sam wouldn’t have to eat ‘sgabettios’, as he called them. 

Looking back, he thinks it might have been part of the reason behind his mistake. He stepped out just for a little while, just enough to get a breath of fresh air, as it had been three long days of staying in their crappy motel room. Maybe he’d forgotten to shut the door properly after his little walk, he didn’t know. All Dean knew was the zombies got in around midnight. 

So he took emergency measures. Dean placed Sam in the gross shower in the tiny bathroom while he stood in front of it, oversized gun in his hands, watching the shut door. He _had_ to protect Sam; it was what Dad had told him to do. 

Just as the door was cracking under the force of the zombies – Dean didn’t know how many – gunshots rang out and bodies hit the deck. Dean recognised the sound of his father’s favoured firearm and almost wept in relief – but to do so would be to ignore his orders further. ‘Look after your brother’ was what Dean lived his life by, and he’d already screwed up. 

When John burst in, he made that clear. He bundled Sam into his arms, ignoring his squeaks of ‘I’m okay!’, and turned his worried stare on Dean. “What happened?” he demanded. 

“I went out,” he admitted, swallowing anxiously. “Just for a minute.” 

“You went _out_?” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Sorry didn’t cut it for John Winchester. “I told you to look after him!” he snarled. “I gave you an order, Dean!” 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, more desperate, but John didn’t listen. He flicked his attention back to Sam, who was pushing off the constricting bind of his arms with another cry of ‘too tight!’ 

John never brought it up and Dean never asked. 

Now, looking up at the very same building it happened in and remembering it with the mind of an adult, Dean can see things a little clearer. He can’t deny that he messed up in going outside – hell, he could have easily been killed and Sam could’ve been left truly alone – but it’s now obvious that John was at fault, too. 

He didn’t have to be so hard on Dean; it was a lot to ask of a kid of ten years. He could have hugged Dean and comforted him as well as Sam. He could have explained gently but firmly where Dean went wrong instead of shouting. 

Dean is well aware that he’s messed up a little, but he’s never really confronted it before. He doesn’t want to now, if he’s honest, but the memories are present and difficult to get rid of. Add to that the fact that Sam won’t stop asking why he’s distracted, and Dean has to comb over it all. He tells Sam, too, since he won’t shut up. 

They both sit in silence afterwards, in the same motel room, in fact, perched on one of the rotting beds. It’s not claimed as a safe building, but they ended up in here anyway. 

Sam’s silent for a moment, focused on his hands as he twists his fingers together. Then, carefully, he says, “I know I gave you a lot of crap over the years for following Dad’s orders… but I get why you did it.” 

Dean feels every muscle in his body tense. “Don’t,” he murmurs. 

Sam nods, sighing, but doesn’t give in. “I’m sorry.” 

Simply shaking his head, Dean stands, gesturing at him jerkily. “C’mon. He can’t be far off now.” 

The thing is, a traitorous part of Dean’s mind isn’t sure he even wants to find John anymore. 

***

“There it is,” Dean says, nodding towards a barn. 

“That’s where he called from last?” Sam asks. 

“Yeah.” There’s a rustle as Dean flicks a piece of paper over to Sam, who opens it to read. “The transcript of the conversation. Not much to go on, just him calling for help.” 

With his eyes on the barn, Dean can’t see Sam’s raised eyebrows. “He asked for you specifically.” 

“Family business, I guess, I dunno. I’m not Dad.” He sighs, reaching for the pistol at his belt. “Alright, we’d better go check it out. Maybe he left clues or somethin’.” 

The sound of a car opening makes the both of them jump and then turn, raised guns pointed at the backseat; neither of them touched their door handles, and the sound came from behind them. Dean feels worry rising in him, tugging at his stomach and making him feel uneasy. If the zombies have worked out how to use doors, every last survivor on the planet is screwed. 

His stomach promptly flips and drops through his feet when he sees who it really is. 

“Dad?” 

John Winchester huffs out a breath, shutting the door behind him with a firm snap. “You boys need to work on your security,” he replies. 

Dean _hates_ that he feels the need to prove himself to his father. Logically, he knows he’s a grown man, but John is also his superior and has been his commander since the age of four; it’s a difficult instinct to shake off. He doubts it’ll happen soon. 

He can feel Sam bristling next to him like a guard dog. Dean’s always thought that Sam picked up on more than even Dean knew about the relationship between him and John, because he used to insert himself between the two, which eventually shattered whatever remained between Sam and their father. It became the cause of many arguments where Dean would then have to play referee instead. 

They’re such a messy family. Dean longs for the faint memories he has of Mary. 

“Are you okay?” Dean asks before Sam can get a word in. 

“I’m not dead,” John answers, spreading his arms slightly. He transfers his gaze from Dean to Sam, lips pressing together when he sees his youngest. “What are you doing out here, Sam?” Unlike with Dean, where his voice is simply firm, and when he talks to Sam there’s a slight chill in it. 

Dean doesn’t want to think about that argument. He can’t. It is, quite possibly, the worst thing he’s ever witnessed, and he kills monsters for a living. 

“Dean needed backup,” Sam tells him coolly. “No one else was willing.” 

There’s clearly something else John wants to add, but he bites it back – for now. There’s no doubt that it will surface at some point; John’s never been one to hold his tongue when there’s something on his mind. Instead, he says something else, something unrelated. 

“Get ready to go, boys, we’re going somewhere safe.” John slaps the back of their seats and twists, ready to get out of Bessie again. 

“Wait, where? Why?” Dean turns, keeping his entire body facing John, even going so far to kneel on the chair to do so. 

“There are people nearby in trouble,” is all he gets as an answer. “Follow my car.” 

“Can’t it wait? We’ve been going all day.” 

John shakes his head once. “No. They need help, Dean, now. zombies.” 

As soon as John’s gone, Dean faces the front again, starting up the engine. He can feel Sam’s eyes on the side of his face, but he keeps his on the spot where John disappeared around the side of the barn to collect his car. But, irritated, Dean sighs, “Spit it out.” 

Sam’s reply is instant. “We’re seriously doing this? We don’t have the supplies. We’ve barely got enough to get us back to Zone 23, and that’s assuming we meet maybe one pack of zombies. How the hell are we gonna deal with a group of people? If Dad’s asking for help, there must be a fair few zombies around, Dean.” 

“And he won’t come back with us if we don’t help,” Dean points out. His fingers tighten on Bessie’s wheel slightly. “It’s one thing, Sam.” 

“I don’t know how you stand him ordering you like this,” he mutters, folding his arms and slouching in his seat. 

“You’re starting on this already? It’s been minutes, Sam, _minutes_.” 

“It just-” Sam hisses wordlessly, scrubbing both hands across his face. Dean can hear the bristle of his stubble against his skin, and he absentmindedly touches his own chin. He needs to shave. “You’re falling into old patterns. You’re just blindly following his orders. Do you know what that’s like to watch?” 

Dean grits his teeth, discomfort rising in him. “We’re not talking about this.” 

“And now you’re avoiding it. Perfect.” 

Dean closes his eyes. “Sam, please.” 

Silence. 

“Alright.” 

Dean exhales slowly in relief. 

“But we’re picking this up another time. I’m only stopping now because we’ve got work to do.” 

It’s good enough for Dean. 

***

Dean feels a spark of jealousy when he sees just what it is John’s driving. It’s their old 1967 Chevrolet Impala, as pristine as she was from Dean’s memories. Miraculously, her black paint still shines in the sunlight, her windows glinting, as if she’s winking at him. 

To a child Dean, the Impala meant safety. She was a haven in a world turned dark by creatures that wanted to kill them, and he still feels that pull now; he wants to curl up in her seats, smell her familiar leather, see if he can dig out the music tapes he’d managed to find on their travels. Music is rare now. Dean misses it, especially his beloved rock ‘n’ roll. 

When they stop at their destination, Dean hops out of Bessie – he gives her a quick, apologetic pat on the door handle – and strides over to greet his old friend. 

“She’s still beautiful,” he comments, sparing only a glance for his father before returning his gaze to the Impala. 

“I locked it up somewhere safe before we made for Zone 23,” John says, tucking his hands into his pockets. It’s always bothered Dean that he calls her ‘it’ rather than ‘she’ or ‘her’. “Maybe we could bring it back with us. You could drive.” 

But Dean sighs, mournful, and looks away. “They’d destroy her for being out here for so long.” 

He hears a door slam, and then Sam’s at his elbow, eyes a little wide. “Where’d the Impala come from?” 

“I put her someplace secure when we left. Don’t you remember?” 

Sam shrugs. “Too young.” 

“Anyway.” John crunches gravel under his shoes as he goes to the Impala’s trunk, clicking it open. “Get what you need, boys. There’s a group in there from the Angels I’ve been-” 

“You’ve been with _the Angels_?” 

John immediately goes silent at Dean’s hissed words. There’s no mistaking that Dean is angry, betrayed, even, at hearing this news. He takes a step back, away from his father, closer to Sam. 

“‘Angels’?” Sam repeats, uncertain. 

“Rebels,” Dean spits out. “I don’t know the details. Just that they won’t join everyone else and they think they’re doing the world a favour by killing people tryin’a clean up their mess.” He sends a sharp glare at John, quietly adding, “You said they killed Mom.” 

Sam grips his sleeve, both as a warning and a comfort. Dean presses his arm back into the touch briefly. 

“I was wrong.” John’s voice is the one that makes Dean want to turn tail and run, and there are very things that can do that. It’s the one that reminds him of his disappointment, his anger, his frustration when Dean did something wrong. He hates it. “They’re not as bad as you think. They’re assholes, but they’re not what we thought. I’m helping them find the ones that _did_ kill your mother.” 

After a pause, as if he was expecting something, John adds, “The Demons.” 

Dean laughs without humour, yanking his arm from Sam’s fingers and turning to walk a few paces away. “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” he whispers, speaking to the ground. 

“Watch your tongue, son.” 

Dean ignores him. He whirls around again, hating that he feels a suspicious sting in his eyes and hears a gruffness in his throat. “Is that why you called me out here?” he demands. “So you could get me in this mess, too? And Sam?” 

He watches with some bitter joy as John raises his gaze upwards, looking uncomfortable. “I didn’t know you’d bring Sam.” 

“I thought you were _dead_ ,” Dean snarls. “But you’re getting’ cosy with the rebels. Perfect, just great.” 

While he’s annoyed at his brother for stepping in, Dean’s also pleased. He’s never been this riled up at John, he’s never fought back this much, and he’s scared of what he might do if it escalates any further. Sam pulls Dean back by the shoulder, then pushes him towards Bessie. “Let’s just get this over with,” Sam decides. “Those people need our help.” 

Dean shrugs Sam off, opening a back door so he can drag a weapons bag to himself. They’re running low on ammo, and since there’s apparently going to be more people there, Dean pulls out two machetes they haven’t yet used. He tests the edges on his thumb; they’re still sharp. 

Even though he’s purposefully ignoring the two behind him, he still hears the last of Sam’s words to John. 

“Don’t take off before this is fixed.” 

***

A small group of Angels meets them at the door of their target – a museum, the title of which is so covered in grime that it’s illegible. He was expecting the Angels to be tall, buff, and have deep voices. Instead, the two he gets to see first are about as far from that image as they could get. 

One is a little shorter than him, smarmy, and British. His rifle is slung across his back on a strap so his hands are free to fold in front of him; he doesn’t offer one for anyone to shake. He gives them a slightly forced smile, one devoid of humour, and introduces himself as Balthazar. 

The top of the other’s head only just comes up to Sam’s chin. His weapon hangs by his side, Dean is uneasy to see, and it thumps his leg lightly as he swings back and forth childishly. His eyes are golden in colour, and his hair is like honey. 

“They call me Gabriel,” he says, lifting a hand to wiggle his fingers at them in a wave. 

“Dean,” Dean says, nodding at them both. 

Gabriel’s eyes slide over to Sam, and he quirks an eyebrow. “And who’s Mr Tall-And-Handsome?” 

Dean bites back a snarl, leaving Sam to recover. “Taken,” his brother replies, “and my name’s Sam.” 

He’s pleased to see that John’s just as uneasy as Dean is at Gabriel’s little jab, even if he doesn’t show it. It’s all in the set of his shoulders, like his other emotions, as Dean realised a long time ago. 

“Who else is in there?” John asks, taking the spotlight off of his sons. Both of them relax; Dean draws his machete, pretending to check the point of it again. 

“Uriel, Raphael, Anael…” Balthazar hums, ticking them off on his fingers. “Castiel, and the ever-charming Meg.” 

“Meg isn’t a very angelic name,” Dean comments. 

“She’s a Demon. Or was.” Balthazar shrugs. “Personally, I suspect that she is neutral.” 

“Ten of us,” Sam murmurs, furrowing his brows. “How many zombies? And what’s even the aim of this?” 

“Smart, too.” Gabriel leers at Sam, taking his time in very obviously checking him out. 

Balthazar thumps him in the arm. “Gabriel, stop being inappropriate, just for the duration of this mission. It’s far more important.” 

Gabriel pouts. “Spoilsport.” 

“Lord knows how he survived this long; if the zombies won’t kill him, I will,” Balthazar sighs, sounding put-upon. “Now, the aim is very simple, I’m sure even you two can understand it. All we have to do is rescue one a man who is, if you ask me, totally mad, but unfortunately he’s also a very clever man. His name is Frank.” The Angel holds up a finger, tilting his head, as he adds, “And if you reach him first, please hang back. He’s armed and far too happy to pull the trigger.” 

“The others are already stationed inside,” Gabriel adds, jerking a thumb behind them. “We don’t know where, though. We don’t know where the zombies are either, so watch where you’re going.” 

Dean nods. “Got it. Anything else?” 

Balthazar flashes a smile at him, slightly mocking. “Don’t get in the way.” With that, he and Gabriel open one of the double doors, raise their guns, and step inside. John inclines his head, indicating that they should follow, so Dean lifts his machete and starts after them. 

The inside of the museum is light but gloomy, candles haphazardly placed at regular intervals around the entrance hall; the other five must have lit them upon entering to ease the way for the others. There’s a desk at the front, along with two skeletons either side of the doors they came through, those of dinosaurs that are clearly plastic. The real ones are probably further in. 

Balthazar and Gabriel are walking up the stairs at the back; they pause at the top, heads towards each other in discussion, before they turn left. Dean just catches Balthazar’s called command: “Would you be so kind as to take the right turning?” 

“Got it,” John replies, gruffly He leads the way, letting the muzzle of his rifle point in front of him. 

“Those guys give me the creeps,” Dean mutters, scowling. “Friggin’ weirdos.” 

“Not now,” Sam hisses back. 

“How can you trust ‘em, Dad?” 

“Dean!” Sam repeats, pleading. 

“They got me out of a few tight places,” John admits, “and now it’s a mutually beneficial partnership. Now stop asking questions about it, Dean.” 

Dean snaps his mouth shut, seething. It’s obvious to him now that he doesn’t have to follow John’s commands, not if he doesn’t want to – Sam’s always been proof of that, but Dean’s never paid attention, not really. John’s orders have _always_ made sense, and while sometimes it always took until the end of them for him to understand, it’s only now when they’re just plain strange that he questions them. 

Why should John trust the Angels? What did they help him with? Why do they want his help? Dean has those questions and about a hundred more circling his head with no answers. 

The door on the right at the top of the stairs is already open. It looks like it’s been forced; it’s hanging uncertainly on its hinges, little squeaks coming from the metal. 

“Dean,” John murmurs, “you’re on our flanks. Sam, you stay central. I’ll take point.” 

That’s always how it was before, only neither of them would let anything get close enough for Sam to use his weapon. 

“Yes, sir,” Dean replies. He turns, moving back to back with Sam instead, keeping his eyes on the path they’ve already walked. He can feel the corridor changing shape behind them, widening into a room, no doubt full of exhibits. He knows better than to glance over his shoulder to look, until he’s ordered anyway. 

“How’s it lookin’, Dean?” 

“Clear.” 

“Split.” 

And there’s the order. He tears his gaze away from the door they came from and sweeps it across this new room – one full of more dinosaur bones, as it happens. John’s already padding down one wall and Sam’s weaving between the exhibits, so Dean takes the wall opposite the one he’s standing by. 

Experience tells him that this room is clean. There’s no telltale prickling on his skin or growls of zombies, but John has always been too cautious. He won’t let them move on until he’s certain it’s empty. They spend five (wasted, pointless) minutes in the Dinosaur Room, as Dean silently names it, before they move onto the next. 

Those very same instincts have Dean darting forwards, machete raised, and shouting a wordless cry of warning just as John steps over the doorframe. 

A zombie leaps forwards, lips parted in a screech as it summons the others in its pack. The sound cuts off with a gurgle as Dean swings his machete forwards, slicing its head off easily; the rotted skin breaks on the blade and splatters the floor with blood that is little more than dull red gloop. The head rolls away, the features still twitching, as the body collapses. 

This room is completely open. Paintings adorn the walls with inscriptions underneath, but Dean doesn’t see them, because this is one of the largest packs of zombies he’s seen. They’re all watching, passing little chirpy noises back and forth. 

Dean does one of the things he’s renowned for among his peers: he makes a joke. “Off with their heads!” he declares, his machete swishing through the air in front of him. 

The zombies surge forwards, fingers like claws as they reach for him. Sam and John stand either side of him, the latter already firing, while the former crouches and waits for a moment to spring. 

Inevitably, some make it past John’s rain of bullets, so Dean ducks around him to defend his other side. When they get too close, his machete neatly slices at skin and bone, slowing them if he can’t risk a fatal blow. More often than not, there are too many for Dean to be comfortable with going too close. 

It’s like some kind of sick dance. He skips forward to meet them, swings, and jumps back so they can move into his space. Rinse and repeat. 

They don’t go too far from the door, fearing that they’ll be surrounded if they move away from their secure walls. It’s only Dean that makes daring steps out before retreating to safety again, and every time he knows that John is holding back a bark to get him back in line. If it weren’t for the growing pile of bodies next to Dean for his manoeuvres, John would have called him up on it many kills ago. 

Soon, the last zombie falls, felled by a neat sweep from Sam. They stand in the aftermath, appreciating their work. “This never stops being gross,” Dean complains, wrinkling his nose as the smell hits him. It’s blood, cold and unnatural with decay. 

“You’re a grown man who’s been fighting these bastards for years,” John says, stepping over a body as he walks for the next exit: a turning to the left, leading them towards the back of the museum. “It’s time you started acting like it.” 

Just like that, any accomplishment Dean felt over the fight falls away like the zombies’ heads from their bodies, hitting the ground with a wet slap. 

Sam grinds his teeth, hissing between them. “Don’t listen to him,” he urges, “you did great.” 

Dean nods, wipes his machete on a corpse, and moves after John. He tries to accept Sam’s words as truth and succeeds, to a degree, but the rest still believes that John is right. A battlefield is no place to joke. 

When they round the corner, the door is already open. Dean can see his father’s back as he stalks over to the lingering pack of zombies. A thrill of fear goes through him. What the _hell_ is John doing? 

Dean starts to leap forwards, but Sam grabs his elbow, shaking his head with wide eyes. “Dean,” he whispers, “wait.” 

“What?” he snaps. “We’ve gotta-” 

“ _They’re not doing anything_.” 

Dean’s stomach lurches and twists. Sam’s right. The zombies should be swarming on John, devouring him, but they’re just standing there, conversing in their strange approximation of language while John walks forward. He neatly dispatches a handful before they even raise their heads to consider him. 

“Why aren’t they…?” Dean shakes his head, refusing to understand. No, zombies only ignore humans when they smell the same, when they’re infected. But John isn’t- he can’t be- 

Sam looks _murderous_. Dean just feels numb. 

He’d prepared for this, of course, but he’d expected to already find John one of them, not halfway through the process. Their father can only possibly have hours left of rational thought before he begins to get hungry for meat. John is as good as dead. 

John looks over his shoulder, and when he catches sight of them, Dean recognises the instant when John realises they know. His face crumples slightly, eyes closing briefly, before reopening. “Get over here!” he calls, but the firmness from before is gone. It’s a half-hearted attempt, at best. 

When they start forward this time, neither Sam nor Dean speak. There’s understanding here, a kind of comfort in following this familiar pattern of following John’s orders to kill the zombies. 

Before Dean knows it, the zombies are dead around him again. The memory of the fight is blurred and quickly shoved aside, making way for his anger at John again. Instead of accusing him, however, he simply asks, “How long’ve you got?” 

John flattens his lips, looking down at the zombie at his feet. He sighs. “Just under an hour.” 

Dean nods, inhaling a quick breath in the hope that it might stifle the tears rising in his throat. He swallows, blinks rapidly, but it does nothing to stop his eyes from stinging. “Jus’ one thing after another, ain’t it?” 

“I was trying to protect you,” John replies, but Dean cuts him off quickly. 

“ _Bullshit!_ ” Dean snarls, fingers tightening uncomfortably around the handle of his machete. “If you were trying to protect us, you never would’a called us out here in the first place!” 

“Protecting you is exactly what I did!” John snaps, fire lighting up in him again as he stalks towards Dean. “You’re lucky I asked for you, and Sam’s lucky you brought him!” 

Dean hears a clatter, but it doesn’t register as metal on stone until- 

“ _Enough!_ ” Sam orders, physically getting between them and pushing them apart, a hand on each of their chests. “Now isn’t the time! This place is crawling! Stop arguing, we can sort this crap after we get out!” 

“We’re leaving now,” Dean decides, leaning around Sam to stare at John, daring him to decide otherwise. “We’re getting out and we’re going to finish this conversation.” Grabbing Sam’s sleeve – more for the need of someone he can trust in his grasp than to pull him with him – Dean starts back for the clear path. 

“I’m not coming.” 

Dean’s shoulders hunch, closing his eyes. “… What?” 

“I won’t last for the conversation, and you know it.” Something hits the ground, spurring Dean to spin on his heel again. It’s John’s gun, slid towards him. He tosses the Impala’s keys over; they land next to it. 

“What are you doing?” 

John’s gaze is steady when it meets Dean’s. For the first time, it’s John speaking to Dean as an equal, not as a father to his son or as an officer to his soldier. “I want you to shoot me now so I don’t become one of them.” 

All the fight goes out of Dean, and he moans softly, shaking his head. John might be talking to him on the same level, but Dean feels like a little boy again, asked to look after his brother while John goes out to find food. “No, Dad-” 

“Do it, son. I don’t want to end up killing either of you two.” John breathes out through his nose heavily, glancing between the two of them. 

“Dad, I can’t-” 

“Don’t make me order you, Dean.” 

It’s a choice. Dean knows John won’t order him on this one; there are other people in the building who will kill him if they have to. He has the opportunity to take Sam and leave without looking back. 

Dean picks up the gun. 

***

“Dean!” 

He ignores Sam’s shout. Tears run freely down his cheeks, burning hot paths on his skin; they’re from a mixture of anger, sadness, horror, and fear, all balled into one. He can hardly see through them, and he knows he should find somewhere secure to cry them out or at least wipe them away, but the emotions wrenching the sobs out of his chest won’t let him think clearly. 

He’s still dragging Sam with him as they exit the museum, leaving the Angels to fight the remaining zombies. Dean’s feet slide on the steps – blood? – and he almost falls a few times, Sam’s solidness the only thing that saves him. 

His father’s blood is on his hands. Dean has no idea if it’s metaphorical or real; he can’t see through his tears to check. 

Dean fumbles with the keys in his hand, struggling to unlock the Impala’s door. It finally opens with a click, and he tosses the bloodied machete inside. Before he can follow, hands on his shoulders pull him around and tug him into a solid chest, the arms around him refusing to release him. Dean struggles briefly and weakly until the scent hits him. Sam. 

Then he falls into the embrace, sagging against his brother as he tries to compose himself. His fingers curl into the sides of Sam’s hoodie tightly. 

Sam sighs against the side of his head, ruffling his short hair. “You did the right thing, Dean. It would’ve been cruel to let him go through the change.” 

“It was cruel of him to put that on me,” he counters, shaking his head against Sam’s shoulder, smearing his tears across the material in front of him. 

“He knew what you’d pick.” Sam clears his throat, trying to get rid of the hoarseness that Dean can hear. “He knew you wouldn’t let him suffer.” 

Dean sniffs, withdrawing and scrubbing his eyes furiously with the heels of his palms. “It would’ve been better if he’d already turned.” 

“I know.” While Dean’s let go, Sam still has an arm around his shoulder, which he squeezes briefly. “Look, we’ve gotta get out of here. Let’s take the stuff from Bessie and go in the Impala. Let’s just get out of here.” 

Exhaling a quiet whine, Dean shakes Sam off and stomps over to the old four-by-four, trailing a hand across her hood. “Man, Benny’s gonna kill me for leaving her,” he mutters. 

Sam huffs a laugh and pats his shoulder. “He can deal. C’mon, let’s get our crap.” 

They start by moving in a pair, transferring their bags in silence. When there’s only one left, Sam volunteers to get it while Dean starts up the Impala. Her purr is familiar, rumbling under his feet, but he never wanted his first drive to be under such circumstances. Even the smell of her leather can’t comfort him now, because he associates his memories of the Impala with John, which brings up a fresh wave of tears that he has to swallow. 

In hindsight, John was a terrible father, but he was still there for them. Now, Sam and Dean are orphans. 

Before the emotions can get a grip on him again, Dean hears something that makes his blood run cold: two gunshots, the sound of something being dropped (the gun, small, probably a pistol), a scuffle, and then a panicked yell of “Dean!” 

He rolls out of the Impala’s open door, yanking out the twin of the gun he sees on the ground by Bessie’s back. “Sammy?!” Dean calls in reply, his voice a little shrill. 

One thought runs through his head like a broken record. _Protect Sam; not Sam after Dad; not now, not Sammy, no, no, no…_

Sam’s pinned against Bessie’s back, a single zombie pressed against him. It has its teeth clamped down on his shoulder, grunting as it yanks its head back like a dog pulling on a chew toy, trying to pull off a hunk of Sam’s muscle. His brother’s breaths are quick and wheezy as he tries to push the zombie off, kicking and thrashing and punching without effect. 

A single shot ends it all. Blood sprays from the entry wound on the zombie’s temple, its teeth unlatch from Sam’s arm, and it topples to the ground. Sam follows, sliding down Bessie’s smooth side until his butt touches the ground. Then he curls in on himself, hugging his knees to his chest as he trembles. 

Dean doesn’t allow him to stay there. He grabs Sam’s unbitten shoulder, curls his fingers under his arm, and pulls him back to his feet. “Impala,” he orders, frogmarching him back to her. He bundles Sam in the passenger side and then slides across the hood to get behind the wheel. 

Dean doesn’t know where he’s going. All he knows is he needs to find somewhere safe so he can think. 

He’s silent throughout the drive, and Sam says one thing: “It’s bleeding.” 

***

The safe house turns out to be a church. It’s not marked on the map, but it’s clear of zombies and easy to block up so it’s good enough. They’re not as far from the museum as Dean would like, but the he can’t travel any further with either of them in their respective states either, so Dean decides they’ll settle here for the night, at the very least. The Impala sits outside while they set themselves up in a couple of pews, using them for beds. Dean brings in the couple of bags that are essential: a small weapons one and food. 

Sam has fallen ill quicker than Dean’s ever seen. Usually it takes about twenty-four hours for the sickness to take hold, but Sam’s already worse than John was, and even displaying symptoms Dean’s never witnessed. He’s shivering and running a fever, he’s already thrown up the contents of his stomach on the church’s steps, and now he’s too weak to move from his makeshift bed. 

He’s also crying. Crying for Jess, for himself, for John, for Dean, for everyone. He talks through it all, words a slurred mess. Dean blames himself more as each second passes. 

“ _I’ll n-never see Jess again… I’m gonna die… I’ll be like Dad… I’m leaving you alone…_ ” 

Dean needs to patrol. He doesn’t. That’s the difference between him and John, he thinks. 

“ _Dean… please, just kill me, kill me now…_ ” 

He’s already cradling his brother’s head in his lap. He could end it with a twist, he supposes. One quick motion and Sam would be at peace, away from the suffering of whatever the zombie sickness is doing to him. 

“ _I want to die, please kill me…_ ” 

It’s just a stream of words now, devoid of feeling, simply there for Sam to babble. Soon, they stop as well, leaving him to weakly nuzzle into Dean’s knee, seeking comfort. Dean threads his fingers through Sam’s hair and brushes away the tears that have spilled across Sam’s face. 

Sam swallows thickly, turning eyes hazy with fever up at him. He manages to force out one last question: “ _Why won’t you help me?_ ” 

“I can’t,” Dean replies, voice cracking on ‘can’t’. “I can’t, Sammy, I can’t.” 

He can’t kill John and Sam in one night. He isn’t even sure he could pull the trigger on Sam when he completes the transformation. Hell, he invites the bite; it’ll numb everything, take it all away, leave him free. 

It never comes. 

Instead, Sam grows limper, sagging into Dean. Did his body reject whatever’s in zombie spit? Did he have an allergic reaction? Is he just not able to become one? 

As Sam’s breaths become little more than pants against his leg, Dean looks up at the arched ceiling of the church. He’s never been a believer, but now’s as good a time as any to pray, right? 

“Dear God,” he murmurs, closing his eyes. Sam keens softly, shifting slightly, his cheek sliding a little further down Dean’s thigh. Dean carefully lifts him back up before he continues. “I know I’m not a good guy, and I don’t, y’know, do this praying thing, but…” 

His eyelids open and his gaze drifts down, resting on Sam’s face. He’s frowning now, repeating the quiet sound again as one long note. “But Sam? He is. He doesn’t deserve this shit. So if you’re up there, please save him. Fix him. Don’t let him d-” The last word won’t come out. It’s replaced by a sob. 

For the second time tonight, Dean finds himself crying. 

It’s less confusing this time; it’s sorrow and guilt fuelling it. His tears patter on Sam’s cheeks, following the same tracks that his own made. 

The lines of pain on Sam’s face are smoothing out, his breathing slowing further. His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks as he sighs. There’s an unfinished word on the exhale, an attempt at his brother’s name. 

And then he goes still. 

With John, the death was instant, a quick whip-crack of a thing, slamming into all of those present. Here, it steals across Dean carefully, slowly, twining around him and settling on his shoulders. 

“Sammy?” 

Rain begins to patter on the roof, creating patterns against the stained glass windows as the drops join. 

“Sammy?!” 

Dean’s tears come faster, and great, heaving breaths interrupting his gasps of his brother’s name. He hauls him closer, pulling him upright now, as if he’s only sleeping and he can wake him up. 

“ _Sam!_ ”


	2. Chapter 2

It takes a total of sixty minutes for Sam to wake up again. Dean spends the first twenty minutes sobbing into his brother’s shoulder, begging him to wake. During the next ten, he lays Sam back on the pew and shouts himself hoarse as he yells at God. Another twenty-five are full of brainstorming ideas and facts and figures in an attempt to figure out a way to bring Sam back. During the final five, Dean contemplates his pistol and the bullets inside. 

Before his thoughts can become too solid, there’s a shaky breath that’s not his own. The pistol takes on an entirely different use; standing from where he’s sat at the foot of the altar, Dean paces forwards, gun raised. 

Sam’s sitting up, a hand to his forehead as he grimaces. Dean tries not to let the familiarity of his brother’s face deter him, but it’s difficult. 

He jerks his chin towards him, gruffly asking, “Full name of Dad’s car.” He clears his throat, silently hating the creak of his voice after all of his shouting and crying. 

Sam glances at him, still frowning and massaging his temple. “What?” 

“Dad’s car,” he repeats, gesturing at him with the pistol. “Gimme the details.” 

“Chevrolet Impala, 1967?” Sam recites, phrasing it as a question. It’s not confusion over the name, but over Dean’s behaviour. “What happened…?” 

Dean lets the pistol fall back to his side, a fresh wave of- he doesn’t even know anymore, it’s just a wave of pure emotion washing over him. He swallows, free hand curling and uncurling at his side. “You got bitten and you died, Sam.” 

Sam does a double take; he’d been looking at his surroundings in confusion, but now his gaze rests on Dean, shocked. He takes a moment to really look at his brother and the state he’s in. Dean knows he looks haggard, tired, and his eyes are probably bloodshot from the tears he’s shed in the last few hours over his family. Sam’s lips part as he exhales shakily. “Shit…” 

“Nice way of putting it.” 

“How am I…?” Sam sits up quickly, which was apparently a bad decision, as he sways where he sits and ends up slumping against the pew’s back with a grunt. “How am I alive? Scratch that, how am I not a zombie?” 

“Beats me.” Dean cautiously goes to lean on the end of Sam’s pew. It’s uncomfortable, but he can deal. “Hell, I must be dreaming. This is unreal. You- I watched you die, Sam, you were friggin’ _dead_.” He pinches the skin on the back of his wrist hard, but there’s no big reveal or disappearing hallucinations. This is real. 

He tries a different tactic. “What’s the last thing you remember?” 

Sam squints, staring over Dean’s shoulder as if he can see it. “We were moving stuff to the Impala, a zombie jumped me, we got in the car… then nothing.” 

Dean nods, satisfied, and swings around so he can give his brother a much needed hug – for who, who the hells knows? They both need it – but Sam backs up, expression fearful. “Dean, no, don’t come close.” 

“Why not?” Dean huffs, folding his arms. “Dude, now’s not the time to get all prissy about hugs-” 

“I’m _infected_ ,” Sam hisses, saying ‘infected’ like it’s some kind of dirty word. “Dean, I’m gonna turn. I…” He exhales heavily, looking away. “You need to kill me before I do.” 

Dean could throw up. He wants to, but there’s nothing in his stomach to expel; he hasn’t eaten since this morning. He sits on the pew, shuffling towards Sam, ignoring the fact that he just moves back in response. “Sam, I’ve never seen a reaction like you had before,” he says, speaking quickly. “No one dies. They decompose, but they don’t die. You had a fever, you were babbling some crazy crap… That’s new. I think I’m gonna put the idea of you not turnin’ out there.” 

“Just because I reacted differently doesn’t mean that I’m not gonna turn!” 

“We don’t know either way, and I’m not gonna shoot you just because we think it might happen. And don’t you dare do it, either,” Dean adds, glare fierce. “I’ll be pissed if you even think about it. We’re gonna find out what the hell happened, and you’re not gonna kill yourself before we can, okay?” 

Sam flattens his lips and glances away again, letting his eyes wander around the inside of the church. As moments pass, his expression softens again, becoming sad and resigned. 

“I can’t go back home, can I?” 

Dean shakes his head on an exhale. “I’m sorry, Sam.” 

“Not your fault. It’s mine.” Sam leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands. “If I’d said no to you, you wouldn’t have come out. We never would’ve gotten involved with the Angels and Dad, and I wouldn’t be-” He cuts himself off with a humourless laugh. “What am I, anyway? I’m not a zombie, but I can’t still be human either.” 

“You’re human,” Dean decides for him. “No way in hell a zombie’s this calm.” 

Calm was the wrong word. Sam moans softly, raking his fingers through his stupidly long hair. “Jess… I’ll never be able to see her again. Fuck.” 

Dean’s eyebrows pull together as he looks away from his brother. It’s a private moment, one for just Sam, and he doesn’t want to intrude. Dean can’t possibly know how it feels to have someone he loves romantically torn away, because he doesn’t have any experience to draw upon. It was a mutually agreed ending with Cassie, but Sam’s been pulled apart from Jess. Sam is, in the eyes of most humans, dead; Dean knows for certain that he won’t be allowed back into any Zones run by people of their alignment. 

Angels, maybe. Demons, probably, but Dean can’t say for sure because he doesn’t know anything about them. 

They’re officially fugitives. 

Dean stands, quietly walking away, leaving Sam to mourn. He paces, passing by the door several times, and eventually decides he’d better check outside. He’s been inattentive for several hours now, making them sitting ducks. 

“Fucking hell,” he breathes as he peers through a small gap, only just refraining from punching the wall. “Fucking zombies. Fuck off!” 

“Dean?” 

“Fucking zombies fucking found us.” Dean spins, marching to their bags. The cocktail of emotions is boiling in his blood, so it feels good to swear and get it out. “We’re fucked, Sam. We’re actually fucked. They’re all over outside, it’s crawling with ‘em.” 

It’s ridiculously pleasing to feel Sam at his shoulder, sorting through John’s weapons with him, picking out the best to use now. “Don’t say that,” he replies. “Dean, you said we’d find a way out and we need to figure out what happened to me. I’m gonna hold you to that.” 

Raising his gaze, Dean finds Sam’s already on him. He meets it and, after a pause, nods. 

They find a staircase to the bell tower at the back, and the room at the top becomes their base. All of their supplies go there, tucked somewhere safe but reachable. The roof is sloping, pointed where the bell hangs but tilting away. There’s a window on one side, displaying the clear night overhead. 

Once they’re set up, Sam takes Dean by the shoulders and plants him directly on a spot of the floor. “I want to try something,” he says, tilting his head towards the stairs. “You know how zombies ignore the infected?” 

“Because they smell of them, yeah?” 

“Maybe they’ll ignore me. I can open the doors, let them in, and we can take them out from up here.” 

Dean really hopes he won’t regret agreeing to this crazy idea when he nods. Sam slaps Dean’s shoulder and takes off down the stairs, swiping a gun from the pile as he goes. 

While he waits, listening for the creaking church doors, Dean wonders how Sam’s managed to push aside all of his feelings so he can focus on the job. It feels like his own are overwhelming him, drowning him, even, as they demand his attention. Somehow, Sam has locked everything away and managed to concentrate on the task at hand: kill the zombies so they can escape. 

Dean tries, he really does. He imagines putting his emotions in a mental box and tucking that into the corner of his mind, but the box is always too weak and crumbles under the force of what he’s feeling, even when he pictures it as a metal one. It’s frustrating. 

And it’s apparently also good for passing the time; Sam’s footsteps thud on the stairs as he jogs back up, his heavy, panting breaths echoing back off of the walls. Upon reaching the bell tower, he drops down on a crate, sucking down lungful after lungful of air. 

Dying and coming back must be hard work, Dean thinks. 

“It – works,” he says between puffs. “Didn’t – notice – me.” He gulps, inclining his head in the general direction of the front of the church. “Should be – coming in – as soon as – they work out – it’s open.” 

“Shouldn’t take long; our scent’s all over the place.” 

Sam simply grunts in reply, too tired to speak. 

Dean crouch-walks across to the opening of the stairs, checking and rechecking his pistol as he takes up a perch at the top step. Already he can hear the thudding footsteps and guttural groans of the zombies as they trace them like bloodhounds. 

Before the first one even makes it to the bottom of the tight stairs, however, Dean hears several cars pulling up outside. There are a few pops and crackles of gunfire, and then several odd thumping sounds that came from the walls. He doesn’t dare go downstairs to check it out nor look through the window on the ceiling. 

He retreats towards Sam to wait it out. They don’t have long to wonder. 

The window shatters, glass scattering across the floor like little droplets of dew. Some of it sprays over to Dean, so he throws up an arm to shelter himself and Sam. Have the zombies learned to climb? They’re so screwed if they have. 

But no, that’s not the face of a zombie leaning in. That’s Gabriel, no longer joking but serious, throwing out a hand towards them. “Quick, before they get past the others,” he urges. 

Dean might hate the Angels, but he’d be stupid to refuse a friendly offering. He drags Sam up by the elbow and pushes him towards Gabriel, taking up his place behind his brother with his gun pointed at the stairs. “Take Sam first!” he barks. 

There’s no argument about it, not even from his brother. He hears a few puffs, a ‘c’mon, big guy’, and then a new, heavier set of footsteps on the roof. Gabriel calls, “Your turn, Dean-o!” 

Dean wants to fight, to kill the bastards who have been tearing his family to piece one by one, but he’s a soldier; he knows when it’s a smart time to fight. Casting one last warning glance at the stairs, Dean whirls around and almost stumbles back again in surprise when his eyes meet icy blue instead of gold. 

The person watching him has very expressive eyes, he decides in that moment; his emotions show in them rather than in his face. His jaw is a little rounded but still sharp, and coated in a layer of stubble. His lips are dry and cracked, and when he holds out a hand for Dean, he sees calluses on the pads and at the bases of his fingers. Wordlessly, Dean places his palm on the man’s wrist and grips, letting himself be pulled up onto the roof, ignoring the other hand that lands on his shoulder to get a better hold. 

A blur of motion flashes past him as he sets his feet on the tiles: Balthazar, diving back inside for their bags. Dean, however, is busy _totally-not-staring_ at the man who pulled him out of Hell and r _eally-not-thinking_ about how he is exactly the kind of man that Dean finds attractive. 

He turns away, moving his bright gaze onto the people scrambling like ants on the ground below, which is when Dean realises how high up he is. He whimpers, promptly sitting down where he stands, and grips onto the nearest handhold, which happens to be the man’s leg. The man doesn’t appear to notice or, if he does, care. 

Dean barely hears over the rush of blood in his ears as he parts his lips and announces, “Dean Winchester is saved!” 

* * *

It turns out that the man is Castiel. He introduces himself once they are back on the ground – which is now clear of zombies, thanks to the assorted Angels hanging around cleaning their weapons. He glances Dean up and down, a hint of curiosity in his gaze, and turns to speak with one of the other Angels. 

Dean’s still getting his feet back under himself after standing on a _fucking roof_ , so at first he doesn’t see Sam. He immediately berates himself for slacking afterwards, especially when he does spot the condition that his brother is in. 

He looks exhausted. He’s leaning against the wall of the church, head bowed, breathing deeply. Dean even thinks he can see a few fresh spots of red through his shirt. How the hell is the bite bleeding again? He really should’ve checked it properly before they unleashed the zombies. 

Dean plants his feet in front of Sam, his back to the Angels – which doesn’t sit right with him at all, not after everything John’s said over the years – and tries to catch Sam’s gaze. His brother’s hand is on his upper arm, like it wants to inch its way up to his shoulder and cover the wound. 

“You okay?” he asks quietly. 

Sam swallows, glancing at the other people milling around. Dean suspects that they’re thinking the same thing: if they know, they’ll kill Sam. His eyes flick back to Dean and he shakes his head minutely. “It’s bleeding again.” 

Shit. What does that even mean for Sam? 

“What’s bleeding again?” Gabriel chirps. 

Dean casts a hard look over his shoulder, irritation boiling in his veins when he sees the Angel standing there, much like he had when they met, minus the gun. One eyebrow is raised and he’s still looking at Sam more than he is Dean. 

He doesn’t get a chance to explain it away before Gabriel zeroes in on the torn shoulder of Sam’s shirt. Dean watches as the Angel reaches for something in his back pocket. 

Naturally, Dean steps in the way, not even waiting to see what it is. He’s still holding onto his own gun, so he can hold up the ground, at least until the other Angels arrive. 

In actual fact, it’s a walkie-talkie. Gabriel rolls his eyes, shows it to Dean, and then lifts it as he clicks a button. “Anna, you might wanna come on down here. I think we’ve found our guy.” 

“Excuse me?” Dean bristles, puffing up. “What do you mean ‘our guy’?” 

Gabriel ignores him, turning away slightly to keep the conversation private. Dean can’t hear Anna’s reply, but he does catch Gabriel’s half of the conversation. “I’ll tell them… Hell, no, they’re not gonna take it well, have you met these guys? If I die, I’m coming back to haunt you.” 

About then is when Dean gives up and goes back to Sam. His brother’s looking worryingly pale again, and he’s actually clutching the wound now. There are little red smears around it where Dean didn’t clean it. 

Sam’s free hand comes up to hold onto Dean’s arm when he winds an arm around his middle, holding him upright. 

Is Sam cursed to die and revive on repeat? Dean hopes not. Sam would be better off staying dead if that’s the case, and Dean doesn’t think that lightly; he’d sooner die himself than let Sam get killed. God knows he’d never be able to pull the trigger on him, either. 

Gabriel returns, tucking his walkie-talkie back onto his belt. “Sorry, boys. You’re coming with us.” 

Gabriel was right, Dean doesn’t like it. And judging by the way Sam recoils, he doesn’t either, even though he’s probably the more likely out of them to tolerate the presence of Angels. 

“Fuck you,” Dean says slowly, enunciating each word. “We’re leaving. Fuck you and your other Angel buddies.” 

He looks around for his bags, determined to take them and leave. He knows that he saw Balthazar put them down nearby, the Angel even _mentioned_ it, so where are they? 

“Don’t make this difficult, Dean-o.” 

“It’s _Dean_ ,” he snarls. The familiar sensation of being a caged animal is closing in on him again. Dean hates being backed into a corner, he hates it with a passion, because it turns him into a creature that will lash out at anything that comes near, friend or foe. The only exception is Sam, and that’s because he’s stood next to him. 

Gabriel rolls his eyes upwards, sighing heavily. “Whatever. Point is, you’re coming with us back to our little corner of the world.” He points at Sam, raises an eyebrow, and adds, “Assuming you want him to live, right? He’s not looking too good right now.” 

“I’m fine.” Sam leans against Dean’s shoulder, wincing as he pulls on his wound. His hand slips, letting a few rivers of red past his fingers. 

“And I’m not an Angel,” Gabriel shoots back sarcastically. “You’re relying on him to keep you vertical. You need to see a doctor.” 

Dean shifts his hand higher up Sam’s side, fitting it under his armpit. Sam grunts when it jostles his own hand again. “What doctors? The only doctors around these days won’t treat…” Unable to say the word ‘bites’, Dean gestures vaguely at Sam’s shoulder with the muzzle of his gun. 

Gabriel shrugs lazily, a smile pulling up one corner of his lips. “We’re Angels. What don’t we have?” 

This brings Dean up short. He pauses in his search for their belongings, hesitating. The Angels do indeed have mostly everything. He’s heard tales of their electricity, guaranteed fresh water, even things like old televisions that can play DVDs or videos. 

Dean can’t remember any of those things. He can barely recall artificial lighting, he knows how rare it is to have sparkling clean water, but TV and movies are way before his time. 

It stands to reason that the Angels would have doctors, surgical equipment, and medicine. 

Maybe they can heal Sam. 

Even as he debates with himself, Sam lists towards him, and Dean has to hold him up a little more. It seals his decision. Jerkily, he nods. 

Gabriel claps his hands, smile blooming into a grin. “Great! I’ll let Anna know – she’s one of our scientists – and we can send someone ahead to let everyone know.” 

Dean holds up the gun, cutting Gabriel off before he can say anymore. “I’m driving in my car,” he says, “and I’m staying with Sam. No buts.” Sam complains quietly – weak, _he’s so weak again _– but Dean doesn’t ask for his opinion. Maybe he would if he was more aware.__

 _ _He carefully doesn’t think about how he’s pulling a classic John Winchester in making the decisions without consulting anyone else that matters.__

 _ _

Gabriel inclines his head and says, “Dean-o, you’ve got yourself a deal.” 

***

Sam’s asleep in the passenger seat, drooping against the window, while Dean waits for their escort to join them. One of the conditions about being allowed to drive his own car to the Angels’ base was they had to be accompanied by one in their car, which Dean wasn’t too pleased about. 

He’s only slightly more okay with it when Castiel walks towards them. He watches as he glances up and down the Impala, as if judging her, and, apparently deeming her satisfactory, he slides into the backseat. Sighing through his nose, Dean gets behind the wheel. 

The Impala ends up in the middle of the Angels’ two jeeps; Gabriel twists around in the one in front to wave at Dean, who just stares at the number plate in front. 

However, when it appears that it’s going to be a long journey, Dean forces himself to loosen up enough to make conversation with Castiel. “What were you guys doing out here?” 

“We were hoping to clear this area and secure it.” He feels eyes on him and, sure enough, when he looks up into the mirror he sees those bright blue ones fixed on him. “However, the possibility of a breakthrough in the cure is far more important.” 

Dean’s lips thin as he drops his gaze back to the road. “That’s why you want Sam?” 

“Yes. Balthazar witnessed the bite and we tailed you to the church.” He can _hear_ a smile in Castiel’s voice, but when he checks this time his mouth is as straight as ever. “It was an appropriate setting, given what we are.” 

“It was the first place I found.” Dean frowns, eyebrows knitting together. “Hasn’t anyone else reacted like Sam before?” 

“No.” 

“Then how the hell are you gonna help him?” 

The pause is answer enough. Dean smacks his palm on the Impala’s wheel, hissing, “Damn it.” _Great job, Dean. You’ve handed Sam over to the Angels with no guarantee they’ll be able to fix him. Go you._

“Our doctors and scientists are the best still alive,” Castiel says, although the way he says it isn’t very reassuring. The entire situation is in no way reassuring. “They will find the solution so we may heal your brother and, hopefully, create something that will protect everyone else.” 

When Dean speaks, his voice is soft and firm. “I’m staying with him.” 

“That won’t be possible all of the time.” 

“And why the hell not?” 

“Because he is infected. He still has the potential to become a creature that can kill you.” Castiel makes a frustrated sound. It surprises Dean; so far, this man has been stoic and stony. This is the first chink in the armour. “I suspect that you will be trained with the other soldiers so you may keep up your fitness levels. It’s likely you will be able to visit him.” 

“This is bullshit,” Dean grumbles. 

“It’s how life must be,” Castiel disagrees. Dean looks up again, and he’s calmly watching the world pass by out one of the windows, completely unconcerned by the ticking time bomb in the front. 

Whether that was himself or Sam, Dean didn’t know. 

* * *

Night has fallen and the sun has risen before they make it to the Angels’ base. Dean was picturing it as a broken down building that had been done up on the inside, much like the safe houses he and his fellow soldiers have made over time, but it actually sticks out like a sore thumb. Dean says as much to Castiel, who frowns at the comparison in confusion. 

It’s a hospital. An honest-to-God hospital that’s lit up on the inside with shadows of people moving past the upper windows. The jeeps lead him around to the front, where the car park still looks well maintained – are those _flowerpots_? Actual _flowerpots_? 

Their little procession stops in front of the double doors. They were previously glass, but they’ve been boarded over neatly from the inside. 

“Your vehicle will be taken to be cleaned and placed with the others,” Castiel informs him, already sliding out of the car. “Your belongings will be checked and those that pass security will be brought to your room.” 

Dean unclips his belt, gets out, and crosses to the other side to collect Sam. He heaves his brother into his arms, shifting until he’s holding him bridal-style, and declines Castiel’s offer of help. “And Sam?” 

Dean’s pretty sure he imagines the sympathy that crosses Castiel’s features. “It isn’t for me to say.” 

He stifles a growl as he staggers towards the entrance. 

Someone else drifts into place on his other side. It’s a young woman with straight red hair and wide blue eyes that are very similar to Castiel’s; she even wears the same sort of expression: permanently dreamy. There’s also curiosity, however, which becomes apparent when her gaze zeroes in on Sam. 

“This is Anael,” Castiel says, inclining his head towards her. “She is our head scientist.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Anael adds. She doesn’t even take her eyes off of Sam’s face. It’s unnerving. “Please, call me Anna. Castiel doesn’t seem to grasp that I prefer it,” she adds, raising her gaze to Dean’s face after she’s looked her fill. Warmth tinges the edges of her voice as she glances over at Castiel with slight, teasing smile. 

Castiel just blinks at her. 

Apparently resigned, Anna settles her gaze on Dean instead, but he can only see her out of the corners of his eyes, busy as he is watching where he’s walking. The knowledge that she’s here to get a good look at his little brother is making him twitchy, too. 

He’s starting to think that he made the wrong decision in deciding to go with the Angels. 

“For now, he’ll be admitted to the doctors so they can check him over,” Anna explains. Castiel moves ahead to open the boarded-up doors, holding them open so Dean can step inside sideways. The lighting becomes sharp and artificial, dazzling to Dean’s eyes, which are unused to it. Far from being encouraging, the sterile scent of the hospital makes uneasiness set in his bones. The door isn’t shut yet as other Angels are coming inside, but he’s pretty trapped. 

“You may come with us to deliver Sam to the doctors, but then you will have to leave for a while.” 

Dean’s muscles lock up, holding Sam tighter to him even though it can’t be good for his already strained body. “Fuck that,” he hisses. “We stay together.” 

Castiel steps in to disarm the situation before it begins, and Dean takes the opportunity to move back a touch. If only Sam was awake and well, they could probably make a run for it. 

“It’s not our place to give you the authority to remain with Sam throughout his treatment,” Castiel says, those icy eyes freezing him in place. “You will be granted visits, at least, and you’ll be informed of any changes in his condition as soon as they present themselves.” 

Dean elects to fall silent, but he’s not done arguing his case. He’s pretty sure separating them is a tactic that the Angels are using just to keep that little extra bit powerless; without one another close by, it’ll be difficult to plan any escapes. 

Thankfully, Castiel and Anna don’t press him. The latter takes the lead, skirting other Angels as they walk by, while Castiel falls in beside Dean, no doubt as a guard. The fact that he even needs one makes his stomach roil uncomfortably. 

A wing deep into the building is sectioned off as the true medical area. It’s not very large, as even the Angels, who apparently have everything, have limited equipment to put there. It consists of a few rooms which would house patients if there were any, and men and women sweeping back and forth in white coats. 

As they turn into the corridor, one doctor breaks off from the rest, approaching them with a gurney. His walk is stiff and yet it’s also certain, giving Dean the impression that he knows what he’s doing, but it’s still not enough to put him at ease. He stops in front of them and inclines his head and, like Castiel and Anna, he has that intense stare thing going on. Do all Angels do that? 

“This is Ezekiel,” Anna introduces, gesturing towards him. “We have been working together to find a cure. Sam will be in safe hands.” 

Here it is: the moment he’s been dreading. It’s like ripping out his own heart and stomping on it himself, a betrayal that cuts deep and aches already. Slowly, carefully, Dean lays Sam down on the gurney, unnecessarily adjusting him so he looks comfortable. He lets his hand rest on his brother’s shoulder for a moment before he withdraws. 

Sam looks so small, despite his height. No, small doesn’t cut it; fucking _tiny_ is more accurate. The strain of the zombie’s infection has really done a number on him. 

Anna touches his elbow lightly; Dean flinches, jerking his arm away from her hand. He thinks her expression is meant to be understanding, but all he sees is another enemy, an Angel that’s taking his brother away to endure God-knows-what. 

He wants to struggle, to fight and get them both _out_ , but he has no doubt that the Angels will employ force if they have to now that they’ve got a potential cure in their grasp. They’ll take the glory for themselves, and damn anyone who gets in the way. It’s better to be alert and get used to his surroundings so he actually _can_ escape if he needs to. 

“He’ll be fine,” she assures him softly, and then she’s gone, walking beside Ezekiel as they wheel Sam away. 

That’s when he realises he’s alone. At some point during the exchange, Castiel vanished. However, before any kind of emotion can set in, the Angel returns, melting back into the place beside Dean’s side that had been feeling bizarrely empty until he came back. 

“Apologies,” he says, “my superior wished to have a word with me. There are several messages he wanted me to pass onto you.” Castiel tilts his head, indicating that they should walk. 

Grudgingly, Dean keeps pace with him as he starts through the winding maze of corridors. 

“I have been assigned to you throughout your stay here,” Castiel informed him. “We’ll be sharing quarters and we may not be separated unless another Angel is present.” 

He’s not surprised by the fact that he has a guard; this is a tight facility, after all. 

“You will also undergo training with me.” 

“I’m not gonna become your little soldier.” 

“We’re not asking you to,” Castiel replies simply, as if he expected the response. He probably did, Dean thinks. “We don’t know how long you’ll be with us, so you will need to know our fighting patterns. You may well be asked to join hunting parties.” 

It actually puts Dean at ease, surprisingly. The fact that the Angels actually trust him – an outsider, one that has already shown signs of rebelliousness by leaving during a hunt – makes something akin to satisfaction curl under his skin. Obviously they don’t trust him entirely, what with Castiel being his new shadow, but it’s enough for the option of hunting zombies to be there. 

Dean really hopes he doesn’t have to use the information he’ll gain against them. Even if he hates what they do, he doesn’t really have the stomach to attack his own kind when there are monsters out there. 

They’re now upstairs, where everything is less busy and lazier. The room they come out into is apparently what was once a waiting room; it still has the sterile white tiles and threadbare sofas, but there are people sprawled on them chatting quietly instead of sitting around anxiously. Nobody questions Castiel or Dean as they pass through towards yet another corridor. 

A few twists and turns later, Castiel opens a door and enters, and Dean gets that he’s expecting him to follow. He thinks that the room used to be a small, private ward, but it’s now a bedroom, although there are very few personal touches to indicate this. There are a few books piled on the table next to the bed on the right, some clothes folded at the foot of it, but that’s it. The left half of the room is empty. 

“That’s your bed,” Castiel states, gesturing towards the plain side, as if Dean doesn’t get it. 

He moves to check it out, but Castiel raises a hand. “Don’t get comfortable. I was just showing you our quarters. We both need to shower, and you need to be patted down for weapons.” 

“Don’t trust me, huh?” 

“Why should we?” 

It’s a very valid point, one that he should have suspected the Angels would have. Dean adopts an unconcerned expression as he shrugs and says, “Fair enough.” 

He can’t work out what the shower room used to be, but now there are those little shower heads fixed to the wall with neck-high walls between each stall. There’s a bar of pale orange soap sat in an alcove, waiting to be used. 

“Place your clothes in that hamper,” Castiel says. Dean turns to see where he’s pointing and promptly turns away again, red-faced; Castiel seems quite happy to just strip in front of him, judging by the way he’s now naked and walking over to his stall without even batting an eye. Dean never wanted to get an eyeful, _fuck-you-very-much_. 

“Your clothes will be cleaned and searched,” Castiel adds, raising his voice over the hiss of the shower. “And this soap is specifically for those who have been outside in the past few hours. It will kill any bacteria from the zombies on your skin.” 

Dean reluctantly drops his last item of clothing, his boxers, into the hamper. He scurries over to his cubicle, snapping back the green curtain that will protect his back from curious eyes as he showers. 

Even though these ones are better – there’s _hot water_ – he misses the ones from home. They clanked, were rarely warm, and it was common to find some weird things in the drains, but they were the ones Dean had used for his whole life. He kind of misses them now, even if they were gross. 

The first night at the Angels’ base is even worse. Castiel doesn’t seem to want to sleep, so he switches on a little lamp beside his bed and reads, leaving Dean to try and drift off, which is difficult for several reasons. 

One: he’s in an unfamiliar place. 

Two: Sam isn’t with him. 

Three: _that fucking light is too bright_. Dean’s used to the darkness of proper night – perhaps just a candle to keep a little glow in the room – but not a goddamn electric bulb. 

* * *

Dean wakes after a few hours of uneasy sleep when he realises that he can actually feel Castiel watching him. He rolls over, glares at him, and wishes he had something other than his pillow to throw. 

At least Castiel has the decency to tell him ‘good morning’. Dean doesn’t extend the same kindness, unless a wordless grunt counts. 

Breakfast is brought up to them by some Angel Dean doesn’t care to remember the name of, and it’s a couple of slices of plain toast. Castiel eats it without complaint. Dean does the same and doesn’t have a single smartass comment to make, as he knows how hard it can be to scrounge up food for a few people, let alone a whole building full of them. 

Castiel doesn’t need prompting to take him to Sam’s room first thing. It’s the first time he’s seen him since he was taken away last night, and what Dean finds doesn’t settle him as much as he’d hoped. 

Sam’s clothes are gone, replaced with a green hospital gown. He’s tucked into bed under some thin and crackly sheets and hooked up to machines that Dean can’t even pretend to understand. His eyes are shut, his breathing even. Dean can almost believe that he’s asleep, except Sam frowns when he’s resting. His brow is smooth. 

Dean takes the chair next to his bed and sits. Part of him wants to do the cheesy thing and hold his hand, but he curls his own over each other and restrains that urge. His respect for Castiel goes up a notch when he glances over and sees that the Angel is standing in the corner, idly examining some old, frayed poster still stuck to the wall instead of staring. 

Before Dean can start to think positive thoughts or something else equally humiliating and frustrating, the doctor who’d taken Sam away lets himself in. He doesn’t seem surprised to see him or Castiel there. In fact, his level, accepting gaze even reminds him of Castiel a little bit. 

“Your brother is in a very difficult situation,” he says bluntly. He approaches the foot of the bed, eyes flicking to his patient. “It seems that while he has the potential to heal, his body is rejecting it as much as it rejects the virus.” 

Dean just hums in reply. What’s the guy’s name? It was a weird combination of letters with an ‘E’ and a ‘Z’ in there somehow, he’s sure. 

“It doesn’t seem likely that he’ll wake anytime soon,” the doctor adds, as if Dean is listening – which he is, but he’s also not. He can feel something clawing up his throat, something he hasn’t felt in years and it’s never been this strong. The doctor – Ezekiel – lets the silence drop as he goes about checking the various things Sam’s connected to. 

It doesn’t last long. Dean’s pissed – at himself, at Sam, at Dad – and he wants answers, even if he can barely assemble his thoughts to pick out which questions he wants to ask. 

“Isn’t there anything you can do?” he demands. His voice is firm when he speaks, nothing like the shake he expected. “You’re a doctor, damn it! Your job is to _heal people_!” 

“Dean,” Castiel warns, but Dean ignores him. 

“I brought Sam here ‘cause they told me you guys could fix him,” he spits. The chair’s feet squeal on the tiles as Dean pushes it back. Nobody flinches, not even slumbering Sam. “Now you’re tellin’ me you can’t do jack?” 

“You know that there is no cure for this virus,” Ezekiel says evenly. He barely looks over at Dean, busy as he is scribbling on a clipboard. “I am doing the best that I can for your brother. You must be patient. Until we find something close to a cure that may help him, there is little else that we can do.” 

Despite the evidence and his past knowledge, Dean doesn’t want to believe it. The answer is plain and simple – Sam has to stay in this coma for his own good – but it’s something that Dean rejects, because it means he’s failed at his most important mission. He couldn’t protect Sam. 

A hand fastens around his forearm, gently pulling him towards the door. “Thank you for your time, Ezekiel,” a voice says politely as they leave. “Let us know if there are any developments.” 

The door clicks shut behind them and Castiel continues to march Dean down the corridor. He isn’t paying attention as they move through the hospital, so it comes as a surprise when a chilling wind bites at his face. Dean blinks, glances around. 

They’re on the roof. That thought alone is enough to make his stomach churn, his measly breakfast feeling uncomfortable inside him. The nearly faded remains of a large ‘H’ on the ground inform him that this is one of those points where an emergency helicopter would land. Briefly, he’s glad that helicopters aren’t flown anymore. 

Castiel has let go of him and moved back, giving him some space to breathe, for which he is grateful. He’s still watching him though, patient, with understanding in his gaze. 

He’s glad that it was Castiel assigned to him, he decides. Gabriel and Balthazar are assholes, but Castiel… 

He listens. He’s trying, bless him, and Dean should give him credit for that. He doesn’t know if he likes Castiel yet, but he’s certainly making his way into his good books. 

So maybe he’ll explain why _they’re on the fucking roof_. 

“Why are we up here?” Dean asks. 

“This is where we train,” Castiel replies. He begins walking as he speaks, a small circle of the square they’re stood on. It’s a big space, but Dean still doesn’t like the sharp edges of it where the ground falls away. “This is the only area big enough for a decent training session.” 

He turns to Dean then, blue eyes bright with something he can’t identify. “Fight me.” 

Intelligently, Dean says, “Huh?” 

“Fight me,” Castiel repeats. He’s striding closer now, forcing himself into Dean’s personal space. “You’re angry. You want to release that tension, don’t you?” 

Dean really doesn’t like the idea of fighting on a roof. He’s had to do it before and he’s never liked it, which is perhaps why he comes up with a cocky response instead of a polite refusal. “I can think of other ways to ‘release that tension’,” he says, smirking. 

Castiel just stares at him with mild disapproval. 

Dean sighs. 

“That’s not an option.” Castiel’s reply is stiff, as is his small step back. “Fighting, however, presents the opportunity for training and also calming yourself. You’ll have to take part in this sooner or later.” 

A good skirmish _is_ actually something Dean does to calm down, but there’s usually a reason behind it. He supposes that training is fair enough. He gives a small nod with a sigh. “Fine. What’s the plan?” 

Castiel looks relieved; the lines of his face relax a little bit, settling into his usual calm mask. “Today, we’ll spar. I don’t think it would be a good idea to do anything more dangerous now.” Dean gets the implication that he’s not in any condition to be handling weapons. 

By the time they return to their room that evening, Dean’s aching and he’s pretty sure he’s going to have bruises. It’s one of the most intense workouts he’s had in a long time; Castiel is a challenge, and an enjoyable one. There were even a few chuckles from both of them at points. 

Dean doesn’t remember the last time he laughed. 

* * *

As the days pass in a blur of visits to Sam and training with Castiel, Dean realises that he’s starting to find a friend in the latter. He’s nowhere near Benny standards yet – the title of best friend still goes to him – but Castiel’s actually a pretty good guy when Dean gets to know him. 

He has a hidden sense of humour that he stumbles across, and he immediately makes it his mission to make Castiel laugh again. It’s a good laugh, one that isn’t forced or too loud or too long. Castiel clearly cares about his fellow Angels and both Winchesters; Dean can relate to this sense of such pure love, because he feels it for his brother and his friends back in Zone 23. He’s even said that he wishes he could be of more use to the scientists, but he’s such a skilled soldier that his superiors keep him working in the field as much as they can. 

Castiel is genuinely a good person. He’s awkward as hell, sometimes misses social cues, and he often irritates Dean, but he’s one of the nicest people he’s met. He has a good heart and pure intentions, which is enough to endear him to Dean. 

But they can’t be friends. Castiel’s an Angel, Dean’s just another person. He can’t get attached when he will inevitably move on, and he carefully doesn’t think about how that’s also true for his past romantic partners; Castiel’s a good looking guy, but he can’t entertain the possibility for the same reasons that they can’t be friends. 

* * *

A handful of days have passed when Gabriel comes to Castiel and Dean during a training session. Dean thinks it’s nearng a week, or maybe it’s longer. He’s started to lose track now, given that it’s always such a whirlwind of visiting Sam and sparring so he doesn’t have to think. The evenings are increasingly enjoyable conversations with Castiel, and the mornings are sleepy and worry-free. 

There’s a stiff wind on the roof this afternoon, signalling the approach of the colder months. Dean hopes that they can get home before winter sets in; it’ll be difficult enough to get back safely as it is without the added danger of weather. 

Castiel’s parrying his blows, blocking the little taps Dean tries to get in on his body. It’s simple enough and has no danger of bruising – unlike the morning after the first session, when Dean woke up black and blue – and it can even get some laughter rolling sometimes. 

It’s during one of these bouts of chuckles that Gabriel comes out. Dean’s seen him when he’s gone to see Sam. Gabriel seems to have grown a fondness for his little brother, and he checks in while he doesn’t have anything else going on. He’s reluctant to admit it, but it’s reassuring to know that there’s someone keeping an eye on him. He still doesn’t like or trust Ezekiel. 

“Afternoon!” Gabriel calls upon reaching the edge of their grounds. “I’ve got some good news, Deano.” 

Dean ducks a swipe from Castiel and holds off a second, twisting to face the other Angel. “What kinda good news?” 

“Sam’s awake.” 

He’s glad that Castiel’s backed off, because he knows he would’ve lost points from being taken by surprise. Dean’s already walking towards Gabriel, abandoning the training session because _Sam’s conscious_. He barely registers the fact that Castiel’s following them as Gabriel leads the way; he’s become used to his presence now. 

As they approach, Dean knows something’s wrong. 

People in white scrubs are fussing around the doorway to Sam’s room, either trying to get a look or shooing watchers away. All of them look concerned, and it’s pretty damn obvious why. 

Even from outside, Dean can hear Sam’s yells of his name, frantic and demanding. Between his own concern for his brother, his desperation to have him healed, and the Angels’ orders, Dean didn’t realise that Sam would be likely to wake up without him present to explain the situation. 

They’re let into his room without a hitch, thanks to Gabriel’s high rank – Castiel explained the levels to Dean last night, told him that Michael was the top dog, and that Castiel’s boss was underneath them. 

When Dean sees Sam, his blood boils with fury. 

He’s restrained to his bed with leather straps around his wrists (and ankles and middle, he assumes, but the blanket covers the rest of him). Ezekiel is nowhere in sight, but Gabriel slips past him as he enters. Dean doesn’t have time to ask why he was with his brother; Sam needs him. 

The chair by his bed is missing, so Dean just strides over and plants his hands on either side of Sam’s face, holding him even though he was already still as soon as he saw his brother. Relief lines Sam’s features, but anger still remains. 

“Dean,” he breathes, relieved. “Where the hell are we?” 

“With the Angels.” Dean lets his hands move, retreating to his sides as he perches on the edge of Sam’s bed. Sam’s fingers are twitchy, tugging at the sheets over him. Dean wishes he could get him out. 

“The _An_ \- Why?” 

“They’re gonna get you healed up.” Dean glances at Sam’s shoulder. He wonders what they did to the actual bite when they took him. Did they stitch it up? Leave it open? Just cover it? He can’t see any hints through Sam’s shirt. 

Sam tries to lift his wrists, making a point as he says, “And what about these?” 

A third voice cuts in. It’s smooth, oily, the kind of voice Dean imagines a salesman might have. The man it belongs to crosses to the opposite side of the bed, his pristine shoes clicking on the floor as he walks. He’s wearing a suit to match the impression Dean’s getting. His eyes are sharp and blue – like Castiel’s but so, so different; there’s not a single drop of warmth there – and he’s balding. 

His smile is shark-like. 

“Those, my boys, are for everyone’s own good. Can’t have Sam turning on us, now can we?” 

He even dares to sound like some kind of patronising fatherly figure, which grates on Dean’s already fraying nerves. He smiles at Dean, but it’s blank, merely a front that’s supposed to be reassuring. There’s no emotion on his face, even though he’s trying to display it. 

“He hasn’t so far,” Dean points out, not bothering to hide the distrust in his voice. “Who are you?” 

“Zachariah,” the Angel answers. His hand wavers at his side, as if he’s going to offer it to Dean to shake, but then he apparently changes his mind and instead slides it into his pocket. 

“De-” 

“I know.” Zachariah’s cold smile returns. Dean wonders if the cool blue of his eyes comes from actual ice, because his stare is certainly cold enough. “Dean and Sam Winchester, the sons of one John Winchester. He was a useful ally, let me tell you.” Zachariah whistles, long and low, eyebrows raised. “A real clever guy. Made for war, you know.” 

Dean knows that, has known that since he was four and was trained by his father. He’s known it since John gave him a gun to protect Sam. He’s known it since the moment he first saw his father pick up a firearm to kill a zombie. 

“It’s a shame,” Zachariah continues, his tone slightly sympathetic and sad, but Dean doesn’t believe it one bit. “He had so much potential, so much… _anger_. It was breathtaking to see him put it to use. 

“And when he spoke of his family…” 

Dean stiffens, shoulders squaring. John hadn’t mentioned that he’d talked to the Angels about him and Sam. What had he said? What ideas, what knowledge, what _memories_ had been shared between him and the Angels? 

“Two sons, he said he had. One had moved on, deciding to pick the tamer lifestyle, while the other… well. He was as much of a natural as his father when it came to hunting zombies, apparently.” 

Dean feels sick. 

“Unfortunately, we had to send him away when one of those creatures got him.” Zachariah wrinkles his nose, making a disgusted sound. “Nasty business, that was. We were pretty darn close to finding the ones that killed Mary, too.” 

His stomach roils, clenching in his abdomen. 

“It’s just so fortunate that you fell into our laps anyway, isn’t it? Why, if it weren’t for the determination of certain people in the search party, you’d both be overrun with zombies by now.” 

He thinks that he’d rather take on the zombies than this Angel bullshit. 

“And, to make matters even better, we might even have the beginnings of a cure on our hands as well as a new soldier-” 

“No.” 

Zachariah pauses. Then, slowly, the jovial expression fades into one that is entirely blank. “Excuse me?” 

“I said no.” Dean takes a small step around the bed, towards Zachariah, and if it weren’t for Castiel subtly moving in between them, Dean knows that he would have thrown himself at the Angel. “You can take that idea and shove it up your ass. I’m not fightin’ for you. I’m gonna take Sam home, get him out of this crap.” 

“Dean,” Sam begins, but Dean cuts him off with a sharp shake of his head. 

To his revulsion, Zachariah gives him that pitying look again. “You can’t go home, Dean. Neither of you can. It doesn’t exist anymore.” 

“What the hell?” Sam demands. Dean thinks it’s a pretty good reply, so he lets it stand, supporting it with a glare. “We were there just a few-” 

“If you want proof, I have it.” Zachariah pulls something from his pocket that Dean recognises as a camera. He’s only seen very few in his life, as they just don’t work anymore with limited battery power around. Besides, it’s a waste of energy that can be used for more important things. 

He turns the screen towards the brothers, showing them what’s there. Dean hears Castiel’s little intake of breath as he leans over his shoulder to get a look. 

Zone 23 is in ruins. There aren’t any zombies around, but it’s the only thing that springs to mind; what else could cause such devastation? Zombies don’t typically attack buildings, Dean knows this, but what else- 

“We had to destroy it. The infection had spread, and it was going to take it all. We did what we had to do.” There’s a pause, and then, “There are no survivors.” 

Sam makes a whining sound, long, low, and pained. When Dean looks over, the sight of tears spilling down his brother’s cheeks makes ones brim in Dean’s eyes, too. Sam’s eyes are closed, his breaths short and shuddering. He’s curling inwards as much as he can while he’s held splayed out on the hospital bed. 

His brother mourns his girlfriend. While Dean feels the loss as well, he can only claim to feel it for Sam’s sake; he barely knew Jess. Instead, Dean feels pieces in his chest fall away, ones that were labelled ‘Bobby’ and ‘Benny’. They leave him feeling hollow. Dean doesn’t realise that he’s crying until he feels wetness on his cheeks, and he immediately lifts an arm to scrub at his cheeks furiously with his sleeve. 

He sits down heavily on the edge of Sam’s bed, as close as he can get to comforting him in the face of their grief. He barely notices that Castiel is hovering, caught between going to his new friend and his boss. 

Zachariah clicks his tongue, and Dean feels a surge in his hatred for him. He wants the release a brawl will give him, the peace that follows after a good scrap, and Zachariah is the perfect target. 

It’s only Castiel’s hand on his shoulder that keeps him where he is. 

“I think now’s the time to let the patient rest,” Zachariah announces. Ezekiel – when did he come back? – brushes around the group, moving for the wires hooked up to Sam. He puts something in one of them with a needle. Sam, still locked in his own mind, doesn’t see or notice. 

“You will continue to learn and practice with Castiel,” the Angel adds as he clicks his way over to the door. “If you ever want to be freed from here, you’ll be the good little soldier that your father promised us. Back to your room for now – continue in the morning.” 

Dean wants to stay with Sam, wants to be there when he wakes up and remembers this – he’s already asleep, wet tracks still drying under his eyes. His brow is crinkled as he frowns. 

Like before, Castiel’s hand on his arm draws him away and back to their quarters. This time, however, it’s not long before anger begins boiling, burning, sizzling under the surface, just waiting to explode. 

And explode it does. 

The door has only just clicked shut behind them when Dean whirls on Castiel, hands curled into fists at his sides. He’s seething, hissing the words “You _asshole_ ” between his teeth as he approaches Castiel. His new friend remains motionless, lips pressed into a thin line as he simply watches. 

That’s all Castiel does, isn’t it? Watch. 

Dean swings a fist up, intending to thump it into Castiel’s jaw. He thinks he’s gotten pretty good at working out Castiel’s style in the past few days, but this is when Dean realises that he’s way, way off; Castiel catches his fist with his own hand, easily ducks under his arm, and manages to get Dean locked up in his arms in just a few, neat moves. 

He realises that Castiel is something otherworldly, but not like the zombies. He’s like some kind of being that doesn’t belong on Earth – a watcher, certainly, although not the kind to sit on his laurels. He’s more like a guardian angel, patient and just in the face of a mere human’s wrath. He really does deserve to be part of the Angels’ family. 

Dean goes limp just so Castiel will release him. Castiel moves back while Dean crosses the room, putting space between them as he swings his arms, trying to work the aches out of them from the stretched limbs. As Dean spins on the spot, going to face Castiel again, he sees that he’s already turned his back, as if dismissing the conversation. 

Dean’s blood boils again. 

“Why the fuck didn’t you fight back?” he growls. 

Castiel pauses, hands hovering over the book on his bedside table. “What do you mean?” 

“With Zachariah.” He steps forwards again, tongue darting out to wet his lips in a slightly nervous gesture – no, agitated, he’s not nervous at all. “When he was smacking me and Sam down. You could’ve stuck up for us, but you just stood there. Why?” 

Blue eyes meet Dean’s, icily cool. “He’s my superior,” Castiel says matter-of-factly. “Would you disobey your boss?” 

“Yes, if he was being shitty to two guys he’s supposed to be helping! You did hear him, didn’t you?” Gesturing wildly, Dean’s voice rises again. “He’s threatening Sam to make me do what he wants! He’s fuckin’ _using_ him in finding a cure without askin’! That’s not right, and you know it.” 

Castiel simply hunches his shoulders, as if rolling off Dean’s words. Dean can taste bitterness on his tongue as his stomach rolls uncomfortably; has Castiel even cared at all? Did he ever feel the kinship that made Dean so glad to have his presence? 

“Do you even _care_?” Dean spits. “Do you feel anythin’ at all? ‘Cause right now, I don’t think you do, Castiel. You’re just a soldier.” He hisses, his anger making his frame tremble slightly with no outlet; he can’t hit anything, he can’t fight, he can’t kill. 

All he can do is lash out verbally. And when he sees Castiel freeze, he knows he’s found his mark. 

“Is that what you are, huh? A good little soldier? Always do what you’re told just ‘cause your boss says so?” Dean sneers, lips curling into an ugly version of a smile. “Who cares about the little guys, anyway? As long as you’re alright, they don’t even matter. _Fuck_ ‘em.” 

“Dean.” 

“ _Because what do they matter_?” Dean continues, raising his voice to flatten Castiel’s one word. “One’s just another part of the ranks, the other can’t even speak for himself. Hell, maybe you can even pretend that they’re not human. Just another robot… no, animals. Yeah, sounds about right, doesn’t it? Cattle-” 

Dean’s words cut off entirely when his back slams into the wall. Castiel is suddenly animated, very much in his face, one hand pressed to the centre of his chest while the other squeezes his shoulder. 

He’s _furious_. All of the fight goes out of Dean at the sight of the storm swirling in his eyes. 

Castiel’s deadly. He could kill Dean if he wanted and probably get away with it, too. After all, Sam’s the important one here; Dean doesn’t have zombie venom flowing in his blood. 

He’s just a grunt. Always has been, always will be. 

“How _dare_ you?” Castiel growls, voice barely above a rumble. “How _dare_ you speak like that about yourself?” 

Dean’s breath goes next, but it’s not because of Castiel – not physically, anyway. His words alone shock him into not breathing for a split second, because he can name very people that give a shit about him, and Castiel has just proved that he does with the force of his anger. 

_How dare you speak like that about yourself?_ It’s something he’s very rarely heard. He doesn’t let Sam or Benny – the only two friends he really has – hear about how little he cares. He wasn’t even being blatant about it in front of Castiel, but it must have come across somehow in the way he was speaking. 

Castiel shakes his head with something akin to disappointment in his features now. “Don’t _ever_ doubt how important you are, Dean. _Ever_. You are not an animal, nor a robot. You are human, and one of the best I have had the fortune to meet. Don’t ever doubt yourself, Dean.” 

He withdraws slightly, finally releasing Dean again. He slumps against the wall, swallowing as Castiel takes a step back. Softly, he adds, “Don’t worry about Sam. I’m already working on the issue. The reason why I didn’t fight back is because it would have blown my cover. If you breathe a word of it outside of this room, you _will_ be stuck here, as will Sam, and I’ll likely be punished and separated from you. You must be patient.” 

With that, Castiel returns to his side of the room. Dean watches as he perches on the side of his bed, picks up his book, and turns to the page he was on the night before. 

Dean stays in the same spot for a long while, thinking. 

* * *

It takes another couple of days before anything happens. In those couple of days, Dean spends more time than ever channelling all of his frustration into training with Castiel – who takes it like a champ, he really does deserve a medal for the amount of times Dean’s bruised him, even though he gives as good as he gets – and he sits at Sam’s bedside, holding his hand in both of his own and wishing his brother was awake. Sam never is. Whatever drug they’ve got him on keeps him under. 

Maybe it’s for the best, Dean muses one of these days. His grief would crush him under its weight. It’s a miracle that Dean has managed to build himself back up after his own losses, but he’s always burned away most painful things with anger in his veins and blood on his knuckles. 

It’s the only way he knows how. Castiel seems to respect that, which Dean is thankful for. 

They’re in their room after a particularly exhausting training session when they receive some news. Dean’s stretched out on his bed, gingerly rotating his wrists and stretching his arms to work out any kinks in the muscles from Castiel’s brutal sparring, while his friend is simply sat there quietly, looking up at the ceiling, as if it holds all the answers they could possibly want. Maybe it does. Dean wouldn’t know. 

A light knock on the door makes Dean pause. Castiel’s head snaps around like that of a bird, his gaze sharpening with something that Dean thinks might be satisfaction. 

“Come in,” Castiel calls. He sits up, his feet tapping onto the tiled floor. Dean swings his legs down so he’s not lounging around while they have a visitor. 

Anna lets herself in, closing the door with a soft snap behind her. She gives Castiel a small nod in greeting. Her blue eyes, so similar to Castiel’s, are as wide as ever, although perhaps slightly more so now out of concern. She’s tied her hair back into a ponytail to keep it out of her face, and her hands are folded in front of her over her doctor’s coat. 

It’s kind of a little bit hot. Dean pushes the thought away before it can fully form, fearing that maybe the Angels can actually read minds. It could be possible, given all of the technology they have. 

“What have you found?” Castiel asks. 

Anna glances towards Dean warily. “There’s progress that can be made from Sam’s blood. That much is obvious.” She inhales, preparing herself to say something; Dean’s internal bells immediately go off in warning, but he bites the inside of his lip and stays quiet. 

“But… we aren’t actually doing anything with his blood at all,” Anna admits. “It’s just sitting there. It’s leverage, Castiel.” 

Castiel’s breath comes out in a soft rush, his eyebrows rising. Dean’s bed creaks as he curls his fingers around the edge of it, tight enough to make his knuckles turn white. “Leverage?” Dean repeats. 

Anna nods, lips drawn down into a frown. “Against you. While we have Sam, you won’t do anything against us – especially if we have his blood. At least, that’s Zachariah’s thinking.” 

“Dean, I apologise,” Castiel says, pulling his focus back over to his friend. “I had no idea that they weren’t using Sam’s blood. I thought it was being used for good.” 

“I’m not blaming you, Cas.” Dean tries to give him a smile, but he isn’t sure if it looks like one. Maybe it’s more of a grimace. “Zach’s the one who’s at fault here.” 

Castiel hums softly, folding his hands together beneath his chin. His gaze has become distant, drifting as he considers something. He seems to be working something out, so no matter how curious Dean is about what’s going on in that head of his, he doesn’t disturb him. 

Blue eyes meet blue. “Anna,” Castiel says, “what are the chances of being able to smuggle Sam and Dean out without causing a scene?” 

Dean’s heart leaps in his chest. This is it, the escape that Castiel was talking about before. Now, he grips his bed with an entirely different kind of tension, excited rather than nervous. 

“Near nothing,” Anna replies. “Even if we’re careful, we’ll be discovered at some point. It’s inevitable.” 

“But we could, theoretically, avoid detection for a while?” 

“For enough time to get things moving, yes.” 

Castiel nods thoughtfully. “Thank you.” He looks over at Dean. “While this is progress, I wouldn’t bet on leaving yet, Dean. This is going to take another few days at the very least. Details need to be ironed out, allies need to be located…” He sighs, glancing upwards. “It’s going to be a long process. You must be patient with us.” 

Part of Dean wants to rant about how he’s spent long enough here, damn it, and they should be allowed to leave whenever they want, but he doesn’t. Castiel’s trying so hard to do the right thing here that any lingering frustration with him is melted away in the face of his earnestness. 

If they’re caught, Castiel could lose everything. He’s sacrificing his life and place here with the Angels – where there’s good food and hot water and electric lights – for two men he met only a short while ago. 

Honestly, if Dean was in his place, he doesn’t know what he’d do. The Angels are indoctrinated to believe that Zachariah’s way is the right thing, so it’s a miracle that even Castiel and Anna are on board with this. If Dean had been here when John was working with them… 

There’s no doubt in Dean’s mind that he would have fallen under the spell. He’s always listened to John, without fail. 

“… perhaps Balthazar and Gabriel could be valuable assets…” 

The conversation continues, unheard by Dean. He settles back on his bed, closes his eyes, and wishes for home. 

* * *

When Dean next visits Sam, he kind of wishes that he could tell him that they’ll be getting out soon. Obviously, he can’t, and for two reasons: he’s out cold, and they’d be caught in an instant. He misses seeing the light in his brother’s eyes, the quick wit and fast smile he can have and brings out in Dean in return. 

He wants to introduce Castiel to him properly. 

Their friendship has only strengthened as time wears on. In between the evenings of silence and planning on Castiel’s part, there are moments when the Angel allows himself to relax. A soft, warm smile will pull on his lips, and his eyes will melt from icy blue to something more like the sky on a summer’s day. It doesn’t make Dean forget about where he and his brother are, but it does make him feel a little more comfortable with everything. 

Tonight is one of those calm nights. Castiel seems more at ease than ever, having tucked away his plans and papers, only to produce a pack of cards which he offers to Dean. He doesn’t have anything to gamble, but that’s not what this is about. This is about passing the time and just enjoying it with his friend. 

They end up cross-legged on the floor, sitting on their respective sides of the room with a gap in between them. “What shall we play?” Castiel asks as he shuffles the deck. 

Dean smirks. “Strip poker.” 

There’s a pause as Castiel looks up, one eyebrow raised, checking to see whether Dean’s joking or not. The wide grin on Dean’s face is apparently his answer, because Castiel smiles too and shakes his head in amusement. 

“We’re not playing strip poker,” he says. “If we were caught, we’d both be punished.” 

Dean snorts, leaning back on his hands. “Seriously? Punished for playing strip poker?” 

“They’d count it as fraternising with the enemy,” Castiel says, and he’s so serious that, for the moment, Dean believes him. It isn’t until he sees the telltale glimmer in his eyes that Dean cracks up with laughter, Castiel following him with a low chuckle. 

“No, but seriously,” Dean eventually chortles. Castiel’s begun dealing out cards, but he doesn’t know what game they’re actually going to play yet. “Would they? Because that’s dumb. I don’t even see why they’d thing that.” 

“I don’t know either. Perhaps we’re conspiring.” Castiel glances up, eyebrows raised. Dean has to bite his lip to keep from bursting into giggles again. 

He hasn’t laughed like this in so long, maybe not since he and Sam had their prank war going on. 

“It’s more likely that they don’t want either of us distracted,” Castiel corrects, shrugging. “If it appears that we’re sleeping together, then they’re going to think I’m letting you slack off in training.” 

Dean snorts, tipping his head back to study the tiles in the ceiling. There are stains on them, most likely from the years of disuse before the Angels occupied it. “What, so now relationships are off the table?” 

“Oh, no, people have relationships of all kinds.” Dean looks back down to see Castiel squinting at the remaining cards in his hands. “I don’t actually know what game we’re playing.” 

“Gimme the cards.” He sighs, takes the whole deck, and begins shuffling again. “So what you’re saying is they’d just be hating on us if we decided we wanted to bang, just because you’re meant to be training me up?” 

Castiel nods, a lopsided smile on his lips. “Yes. It’s a broken system, I know.” 

Dean shakes his head, a smile still playing on his lips. “Okay, new question. Have you ever dated a person in here?” 

“No. Well, sort of.” The shuffling sounds of the cards pauses as Dean looks up, eyebrows raised as he waits for clarification. Castiel sighs and adds, “I’ve had one relationship in here, and that was more for convenience’s sake on both of our parts.” 

A slow smile spreads across Dean’s face, becoming a grin. “Cas, you sly dog, you tellin’ me you had a friend with benefits?” 

“If you mean we…” he pauses, searching for words. “We… spent the nights together because it was enjoyable and worked for both of us, then yes.” His smile fades a little, his gaze dropping to the chipped tile in front of him. “It didn’t last too long.” 

“How come?” 

“Zombies.” 

Castiel doesn’t give any indication of how specifically the zombies ended his partner - or, Dean notices, the gender of his partner, which he really _shouldn’t_ be thinking about - but it’s enough to sober the conversation. The last thing Dean wants is to send them headfirst back into more serious topics, so he tries to steer them back on a happier path. 

“So,” he says, deciding to set up a game of Blackjack, “you seeing anyone now?” 

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “Why do you want to know?” 

Why _does_ he want to know? Dean’s not entirely sure that his question is as innocent as he wanted it to be. Is it just to make conversation, or is it because there’s real interest there? Dean can’t deny that Castiel’s an attractive man, and he’s definitely the type of guy he’d have tried to get into his bed back when he was in Zone 23. 

In the end, Dean chickens out and shrugs. “I’m curious, is all.” 

Castiel seems sceptical, but he appears to accept the answer. “No, I’m not,” he says simply. “Are you?” 

Dean _does not_ let himself feel hopeful. Castiel’s just doing the friendly thing and returning the question. He pulls on his old cocky grin, raises his eyebrows, and shrugs. “Nope. Sammy thought I was dating my best friend, though.” 

At the mere thought of Benny, Dean’s smile slides away as quickly as it had appeared. A small part of him has a brief hope that Castiel didn’t notice, but it’s short-lived. 

A hand rests on his, catching his attention. He looks up and meets bright blue eyes. 

“What happened to him?” 

Bitterness swells up in Dean, and he brushes Castiel’s hand off to resume dealing. “Angels,” he says shortly. 

Afterwards, the only words that are said are for the game. 

* * *

Dean has forgotten how long he’s spent here now. He thinks it’s somewhere nearing the month mark, but he’s not too sure. The sterile white walls of the hospital are starting to drive him mad; even with the excursions out onto the roof for fighting, he’s starting to get cabin fever. He can only hope that they’ll be sent on a mission soon - or, even better, that Castiel will work his magic and get them out. 

The latter of those prayers is answered, much to his relief. Dean’s not exactly fond of the idea of working properly with the Angels, which is what going on a mission with them would mean. Unfortunately, the means of this aren’t exactly desirable. 

It means being on the roof in freezing sheets of rain, just so they can’t be overheard. It also means sparring with Castiel so there’s a valid reason to be out in this weather. He doesn’t have any idea what Anna, Gabriel, and Balthazar will say if they’re asked for their motivation, but Castiel seems to have faith in them, so he lets it slide. 

It’s hard to hear them over the sound of pattering rain and whistling wind in his ears when they’re stood under the shelter of the door. He can only pick out the shape of Anna’s mouth moving, forming silent words. 

Dean leans into Castiel, twisting to avoid his fist. “Can you hear what she’s saying?” 

“No.” Castiel steps back neatly, only to come in from the side, forcing Dean to grasp his wrist to keep him from landing a smack. “Can you?” 

He grunts with the effort of pushing Castiel back. “Nope.” 

Castiel sighs in frustration. “Then it was pointless coming out here to avoid being spied on, wasn’t it?” 

Dean spots an opening and he lunges. Castiel sees him coming, as usual, and he makes a grab for him while moving with him. The slick ground slides underneath Dean’s feet, and before he knows it, he’s on his back with a heavy weight on top of him. 

_Now_ he can hear the Angels, and it’s Gabriel’s distinctive laughter that comes through the wind. It’s easy to tell why: when Dean fell, he took Castiel with him. Now the Angel is staring down at him with shocked, wide eyes, and if Dean isn’t mistaken, he’s sure he can see pink crawling over his cheeks. 

It’s enough to wind Dean - both the fall and the sight of a blushing Castiel. 

His heart races as he and Castiel struggle to get up without knocking into each other any more than they already have. There’s repetitions of ‘sorry’, ‘watch your leg’, and ‘careful!’ before they get anywhere near vertical, and by then Dean’s pretty sure his face is red, too. He hopes that the film of drizzle conceals that fact from the Angels by the door. 

The fact that they’re leaving an awkward gap between each other is noticeable, however, but that’s expected anyway, isn’t it? 

Castiel is the first of them to make a move. He falls back into a battle ready stance, his face back into a neutral mask despite the lingering blush. Dean swallows and while he’d like to take the hint, the other three are heading over now, as if their stumble was a break in a conversation that they can interrupt. 

“Talking to you out here isn’t working, evidently,” Balthazar sighs. “Either talk to us now instead of leaping around like idiots, or let’s go inside.” The Angel folds his arms, raising his eyebrows expectantly. “You wanted our help, Cassie, and we’re offering. We have an idea that we’d like to run through with you, which we can’t do if you’re following dear Zachariah’s orders.” 

Castiel bristles, no doubt in defence of his dying loyalty to Zachariah, but Dean bats his elbow and he stops. The Angel glances over at him, brow crinkled, but Dean ignores him in favour of looking at Balthazar. 

“What’ve you got?” 

Gabriel chuckles, eyebrows lifting. “Sorry, Dean-o, but this isn’t really for your ears. If there are bugs hanging around, they’ll get suspicious if we’re all hanging around having a chat.” He jerks his thumb back towards the door. “I vote we head back in the warm and find somewhere to plan.” 

Castiel gives an approving nod. He turns to Dean and asks, “Dean, would you like to visit Sam while I speak with them?” 

Dean folds his arms, squares his jaw, and stands his ground. “I wanna hear this.” 

“I’ll fill you in later,” Castiel promises. “Don’t be difficult, Dean.” 

“Don’t be-” Dean cuts himself off with a heavy exhale of air through his nostrils. “Fine.”” 

While he knows that they’re taking proper precautions to hide their escape attempt, it doesn’t make it any less frustrating to be kept out of the loop. Dean’s so used to being the head of operations that this turn of events is leaving him floundering. He’s still not entirely sure how he feels about it when he’s sat at Sam’s bedside, which is enough of a wake-up call to remind him why they need to get out. 

* * *

Sam is as still and silent as ever. The weeks here haven’t been kind to him; he looks thinner, paler, but, thankfully, not a bit like a zombie. Next to one of those creatures, he’d seem healthy, Dean supposes. His eyes would be bright with life despite the burden he now carries in his veins. 

None of that makes it any easier to sit and stare at him. 

* * *

Being retrieved by Castiel lifts the negative thoughts before they start to take root in his mind, thoughts like “ _What if he never wakes up_?”, “ _What would Dad think,_?”, and “ _Will Sam hate me_?” fading when the door opens to reveal him. To anyone else, Castiel’s expression would be neutral, but Dean can see relief in the way his eyes soften and his lips turn upwards slightly at the corners. 

“You can leave now,” he says. His gaze darts to Sam briefly, and Dean catches a flash of pity before it’s wiped off of his face. 

Dean stands, his chair moving back with a scrape of wood on tile. He taps the back of Sam’s hand lightly and murmurs, “See you later,” but, of course, he doesn’t reply. He stays still. 

It’s a far cry from the way he’d been when he’d first reanimated. Honestly, Dean isn’t sure if he prefers this to what Sam could have been. 

Castiel tilts his head towards the hallway, indicating that they should leave. Footsteps tell of the approach of a doctor, probably to pump something else into Sam’s veins or to take blood, and Dean doesn’t want to stick around for that. There’s no telling how he’ll react when he’s already at the end of his tether, so he follows Castiel without protest. 

The hospital’s twisting corridors are etched into his memory now, but he still has to be escorted from place to place. It’s not so bad when it’s Castiel, though, Dean thinks; they walk close enough for their arms to brush, their strides matching. It’s the kind of synchronicity that he’s only come close to with Sam - this is an entirely different kind. 

There’s something else here, something that isn’t just friendship in an unusual situation. Dean had a taste of it on the roof earlier when he saw Castiel’s blush, and now that he thinks back on it, he notices that he wants to recreate that blush, although perhaps under other circumstances. 

Is it really frowned upon by other Angels for Dean to want that? They’re trying to make him one of their own anyway, so what’s the issue if he _does_ want more than friendship with Castiel? 

As they draw closer to the door to their room, Dean bumps him gently with his elbow to catch his attention. “Cas?” When he receives a soft hum of acknowledgement, Dean continues. “How did the, uh, the conversation go?” 

But Castiel holds up a hand, one finger raised - it’s a clear _one moment, please_. Dean huffs, tucks his hands into his pockets, and reluctantly waits for them to be encased in the familiar, safe walls of their room. 

There are signs of others having been here. There’s a notebook closed on Castiel’s bed, and someone’s clearly rooted through Dean’s stuff, leaving his few possessions strewn across his pillow; he raises an eyebrow at Castiel, who offers an apologetic smile and a simple, “Gabriel.” 

“Son of a bitch,” Dean mutters. He stalks over to gather his bits and pieces to place them back in their drawer. “Next time, don’t let him at my stuff.” 

“Apologies.” He hears bed springs squeak as Castiel sits down. “The conversation went very well. Balthazar had a solid plan. If everything goes well, we’ll be leaving by the end of the week.” 

Dean turns, a book in hand, and frowns. “‘We’?” he quotes. 

“Yes, ‘we’. I’m coming with you.” 

It’s said so nonchalantly, so easily, that Dean almost doesn’t believe him. “Seriously?” 

Castiel looks up as he slides his notebook under his pillow and says, “Seriously.” 

An elated smile crosses Dean’s face. He grips the book too tightly, his knuckles paling. “That’s great. Awesome, actually. What brought you ‘round?” 

“I’m sick of this,” Castiel says, waving a hand around to encompass the entire Angel establishment. “This has never felt right. It’s corrupt, and as long as it’s corrupt, it’s never going to be the safe haven nor the hospital it claims to be. I want to help people, and people are outside of here.” 

Dean’s grin widens. “I could kiss you for that.” 

He’s half joking when he says it, but part of him really does mean it. The latter reason has his heart hammering against his ribs when Castiel raises an eyebrow, a flicker of mischief in his expression, and dares him. “Why don’t you?” 

It’s an invitation if Dean’s ever seen one. He tosses the book back on the bed behind him, and he doesn’t care that he missed when he hears it hit the wall and slide down behind the frame. He can get it later when Castiel isn’t watching him expectantly. 

He strides across the room, hand lifting to meet Castiel’s when it’s raised towards him. Their fingers tangle as Castiel fists his other hand in the collar of Dean’s shirt, dragging him down to press their lips together. The force of the yank has Dean grabbing at Castiel’s shoulder to stay on his feet. 

Castiel’s mouth is dry and warm on Dean’s own. The first peck lasts barely a second, as Castiel draws back to change the angle of his head before he dives in again. This time there’s a tongue sliding along his lips, begging for entrance, and Dean eagerly parts them to welcome it with a soft groan. It’s hot and demanding, and everything that never fails to get Dean weak at the knees. 

He’s reluctant to break away, but his lungs scream for attention. Dean tips his head away, sucking in deep breaths, while Castiel pants against his jaw. 

He wants more. Damn it, kissing Castiel is addictive, and it’s not fair that his attention should be elsewhere. Dean wants to sink into this new step and find out what the rest of Castiel tastes like and what sounds he can get him to make. 

When he licks his lips, he tastes the Angel. 

“Well,” Castiel murmurs. He presses a tiny kiss to the corner of Dean’s jaw. “That was worth the wait.” 

Dean hums his agreement. The hand that was supporting himself on Castiel’s shoulder moves, travelling up into his hair to feel its texture. “Yeah.” He closes his eyes, nosing Castiel’s temple. 

Castiel releases his shirt only to place his palm on his chest, pressing gently. He squints as he scrutinises Dean, and then he sighs. “You’re hesitating.” 

Dean grimaces. He gives the hand still in his grasp a light squeeze. “Don’t get me wrong, I want this. I just don’t think now’s the best time, when we’re days away from breaking out.” 

“True.” Castiel lets go of his hand, but reaches up to draw Dean in for a little peck before releasing him. “Afterwards, then?” 

“Afterwards,” he agrees. 

Even though Dean goes to sleep on the opposite side of the room as opposed to next to Castiel, he still feels warm with the knowledge that there’s promise. Once they’re free, he’ll ask Castiel if he’s still up for exploring this part of their relationship, he’ll pick up where they left off. 

* * *

Dean doesn’t regret his decision to wait as the next few days pass. Castiel becomes more focused, and with that comes a person that’s similar to the Angel he first met. Putting a pause on the development of their relationship means it’s been saved from suffering from, as Dean has dubbed it, ‘The Curse of Robo-Cas’. 

The days tick towards the weekend slowly. Dean’s sparring with Castiel becomes sparse, and for one afternoon he teams up with Gabriel, but the Angel kicks his ass far more thoroughly than Castiel ever has, leaving him with bruises when he checks himself over that evening. 

With their coming freedom comes the opportunity to explore his relationship with Castiel. Dean can’t help lingering over the possibilities and the potential; he’s never had something long-term before, and while he doesn’t know if that’s what Castiel wants, Dean knows that had wants to try it. When his surroundings are ever-changing, it’ll be nice to have one constant. 

Unfortunately, that constant is distracted by their biggest problem, which leaves Dean feeling a little abandoned. It’s necessary, he knows, but it doesn’t make it anymore pleasant, not when he feels a desire for contact with _someone_ to stop the shadows at the edges of his mind from creeping in. 

That person turns out to be Anna. Unlike Gabriel and Balthazar, she doesn’t mess him around; he feels a little guilty about building up his friendship with her since she’s so similar to Castiel, and it sort of feels like he’s replacing the other Angel, but he learns that there’s more to Anna than her top layer. He should have seen that coming, he supposes, since it was the same story for Castiel. Anna has fire to her, a desperate desire to do right by the world, and she’s caring in a way that Dean thinks his mother used to be - he can’t tell for sure because the memories are faded, but there’s something familiar there. 

He and Anna spend the time she can spare each day together swapping stories. She tells him some fantastic ones about Castiel, ones that manage to split his cool mask so he looks up at them from the other side of the room with a fond smile. When his gaze drifts to Dean, amused, his features soften very slightly, and warmth shivers down Dean’s spine. 

He would compare experiences with Sam if his brother was awake. Sam knows what it’s like to enter a _real_ relationship with love and cuddling and laughter, when all the experience Dean has to go on is how to read the one kiss he’s had with Castiel to find out what the Angel likes. He knows that he can pleasure Castiel, but he has no idea if he can keep him happy as a partner. 

Despite all of his fears, Dean is more than ready to be out of here. He wants to get back out into the world, as awful as it may be, with Sam and Castiel on either side of him. He needs to find out what Sam wants to do now that he has the weight of humanity’s salvation on his shoulders, and he wants to help bear that trouble if he can. 

Above all, he needs to return home to Zone 23 and see if Zachariah was telling the truth. 

* * *

Dean’s woken by a sharp shake of his shoulder. His eyes snap open and he flings out a hand into the murky darkness of the room; his fingers land on a bicep, curling around and squeezing both to keep the person away and to hold onto them. 

His momentary panic dissipates when his eyes adjust and he sees Castiel’s familiar face. 

The Angel’s gaze is like steel, urgent and determined. He withdraws slightly when Dean meets his eyes, shaking off his hand gently, only to catch it with his own to pull Dean up. The bed covers pool around his waist, so Dean pushes them away to swing his legs off the side of the bed. He opens his mouth to ask a question, but Castiel places one finger to his lips with a soft, “Hush.” And then, barely more than a breath, “Have you packed your possessions?” 

Dean’s heart leaps into his throat - this can only mean that it’s time, can’t it? He’s had his few things packed for days, tucked into the small rucksack that Castiel managed to supply him with. It’s resting at the foot of his bed, so he strides over to scoop it up, slipping his arms through the loops so it’s secure. Instead of answering, Dean gives Castiel a thumb’s up. 

Seemingly satisfied, Castiel mutely points at Dean’s boots and retreats to stand by the door. Dean crouches to pull them on and lace them up, making sure to tie secure knots so he won’t end up tripping himself over. That was pretty much Rule Number One - capitals included - back at Zone 23’s training camp. When he’s happy, Dean straightens and goes to join Castiel. He cocks an eyebrow at him, silently asking a question: _What’s the plan?_

Castiel licks his lips, glancing at the door quickly, on guard. “We wait for the alarm,” he whispers. Dean thinks he might even be quieter than when he first woke Dean. “When it sounds, you stick close to me while I lead us to the ambulance bay. Your car is waiting for us there. Once Anna delivers Sam to us, we leave. Balthazar is handling the gates, and Gabriel is setting off the alarm.” 

It’s simple enough when said aloud, but Dean had no doubt about how much effort went into creating this plan. It’s touching to know that these Angels have put their lives on the line just to help out two wayward young men. If Dean can get even one of the Angels out of this poisonous atmosphere, he’ll be happy. 

Fingers touch his own, winding together with them to squeeze gently. Castiel’s looking straight at him when Dean looks again. To his surprise, Castiel leans in to give him a peck on the cheek. Dean’s never had a kiss so chaste. 

“Stay safe,” Castiel murmurs. “You _must_ do as I say if you want to escape. This is our only chance, Dean. If this fails, it’s very likely that we won’t have another.” 

Dean nods, squaring his shoulders as he prepares himself. He’s good at focusing himself and that’s exactly what he does now, zoning in on this one task. 

Escape. 

The alarm is surprising when it sounds. It’s a blaring screech of a sound, designed to awaken everyone in the building. Dean worries about that for a moment before he decides that the confusion will be perfect. Words come over the intercom in a voice that Dean recognises as Gabriel. 

“ _Security breach on the south side. Zombies incoming. Please go to your designated stations._ ” 

Bizarrely, Dean thinks he’s never heard Gabriel be so polite. 

Everything afterwards is a blur of motion. Castiel seizes his hand in a death-grip as he flings the door open, already sprinting out before it’s even bounced off of the wall. Dean’s legs automatically begin pumping to follow him since he doesn’t want to faceplant. 

His knowledge of the layout of the hospital is irrelevant; he’s never seen the garage, and when it’s dark and full of other running people it’s hard to recognise anything except Castiel’s hand in his own. Apparently, Castiel has no issue with knowing where he’s going, for which Dean is extremely grateful. They can’t afford to stop moving, because as soon as the Angels realise that the zombies aren’t coming to eat their brains, they’ll hunt down the culprits. 

What’ll they do to Sam? 

What’ll they do to _Cas_? 

Cas slams his shoulder into a door rather than raising his hand to open it; like the one to their room, it smacks into the wall with a shudder, the glass panes rattling. The first breath of cold night air in his lungs fills Dean with renewed energy, but it’s nothing compared to the sight of the Impala waiting for him. 

She sits there, seemingly untouched by grubby Angel hands. She seems to be in the exact same condition that Dean left her in; gleaming but a hint of wear about her, telling of the hoards that have tried to scratch her paint. Dean bets that his stuff is even still locked in the trunk - the weapons and bags of clothing and food. 

If he had the time, he’d run his hands over her to check for damage, inspecting every square inch of her. But he doesn’t have the time, so he only listens to Cas’ bark of “Get in!” and spares a moment of indignation that he’s on the passenger’s side. 

Dean throws himself onto the Impala’s familiar leather seats, inhaling the scents of _home_. He takes it all in as he twists around to shove open the backdoor as well. Sam will just have to stay on the back seat, and Dean will just have to hope that he won’t bounce around too much. 

The alarms are still ringing, but maybe it’s louder in Dean’s head than it is in reality. He doesn’t know anymore. He’s high on adrenaline and the warm feeling of happiness flowing through his veins at seeing his home away from home again, and that feeling increases when he sees a flare of red hair pushing a gurney towards them. Of course Anna wouldn’t be able to carry Sam; he’s a giant. 

There’s also a shorter person sprinting towards them, and Dean’s heart sinks to see that there are Angels on his tail. God knows why Gabriel thought it would be a good idea to come with them. As the Impala’s engine rumbles to life, her purr settling somewhere in his chest, Dean also spots Balthazar catching up to Anna to help her. 

“We can’t leave any of them,” Dean says firmly to Castiel, who is tapping his fingers on the wheel. 

“I know,” Castiel agrees. “They’ll be torn apart.” 

Dean doesn’t even know if he means that literally. He doesn’t really want to find out. 

Anna and Balthazar arrive first. Together, they slide Sam off to unceremoniously dump him in the back of the Impala. Balthazar kicks away the gurney and is clearly about to run when he sees the stampede Gabriel is bringing their way. 

“Bugger,” he hisses. Balthazar grabs Anna’s wrist and tugs her into the back with him, squashing up against Sam. Dean desperately wants to swap places with Balthazar so he can check his brother, but there’s not enough time. There’s not enough time and there’s not enough _space_ for Gabriel unless he fancies throwing himself across the laps of the others. 

It’s exactly what he does. 

Castiel’s foot is pressing on the pedal, revving the engine, when there’s a series of grunts and curses from the back. A door slams, someone yells “Go!”, and then they’re flying.

__


	3. Chapter 3

The landscape is a blur, smudges of leaf-green and sky-blue blending together as the Impala speeds down the empty road. Her familiar purr has done wonders to settle the nervous energy that’s making Dean’s knee bounce and his toes tap on the floor. As free as they might seem, they’re not out of the woods yet; Angel cars are tailing them, far enough that they don’t need to be too worried but close enough that they can’t stop driving. 

Not only does Dean want to drive and check on Sam, but he also needs to piss. His bladder’s been screaming at him for attention for the last few miles. He just grits his teeth and ignores it. He doesn’t particularly want to wave his dick out of the window, but if things continue the way they are, he might have to. 

There’s shuffling and shifting in the back as the three Angels - ex-Angels now - try to make themselves comfortable without jostling Sam too much. His brother hasn’t stirred yet, probably because the drugs haven’t quite worked their way out of his system. 

Dean can’t help worrying that, despite the evidence that he’s seen with his own eyes, the Angels have lied. What if the drug they used keeps him under so the zombie disease can’t continue to infect him? Escaping was almost laughably easy, so what if that was part of the plan, and they’re just going to finish off the Winchesters while they have the chance by infecting them from the inside out? What if he’ll turn as soon as he wakes, and one of the Angels steps in to finish him off because _Dean can’t_? 

He twists, looking behind him at the four in the back. Sam’s head lolls against Anna’s shoulder, who’s switched places with Balthazar so she can be near him - she seems to be the most capable when it comes to stepping in as a doctor. Gabriel is half on and half off of Balthazar’s lap, squeezing himself between the back of Dean’s seat and his fellow Angel’s knees. 

“There’s no bloody _space_ ,” Balthazar snarls. “You’re a royal pain in the arse, Gabe. I hope you know that.” 

“More like you’re a pain in _my_ ass. Are you the one with a knee digging into your right buttcheek? No? Then shut up.” 

“Stop arguing,” Dean growls. “Anna, how’s Sam?” 

If Sam doesn’t make it, this entire endeavour was pretty damn pointless, in Dean’s opinion. 

There’s a pause as she elbows Balthazar to find the room to press her fingers to Sam’s throat so she can find a pulse. Her gaze drifts as she mouths numbers, counting. She hasn’t moved away, so Dean’s taking it as a good sign; he breathes a sigh of relief when she nods and says, “His pulse is good and he’s breathing fine.” 

“We need to stop as soon as possible,” Cas says. Dean twists, watching as he glances in the rearview mirror. “As soon as we’ve lost the Angels, of course. We need to make sure we have enough fuel to keep us going. We’ll have to take shifts driving, too.” 

Dean frowns over at him, slumping back down into his seat. “Do you have any idea where you’re going?” 

“Away from them,” Cas says simply. And, after a pause in which no one adds anything, his brows furrow and he asks, “Does anyone else have any better ideas? Until we can locate a safe place to find our bearings - which we can’t do until the Angels are gone - we can only drive.” 

“We could slow ‘em down,” Dean suggests. 

“And how would we do that?” 

Dean doesn’t reply - not verbally, anyway. He scoots down in his seat to access the glove compartment, rooting through tapes and useless forms until he finds what he’s looking for: the pistol that his father always kept there for emergencies. Dean grins as he checks it over, and his smile widens when he finds that it’s loaded. John always did keep a ready stock of weapons. 

Anna leans forwards, placing her hand on Dean’s shoulder in a firm grip. “You’re not going to shoot them, are you?” 

“No.” Dean rolls down the window in quick jerks, since the handle is stiff and makes it awkward when his other hand is occupied with a cocked pistol. Once there’s enough space, Dean turns around completely so he can lean out of the window. 

Wind whips at his face, making his eyes sting. Raising and steadying the pistol is even harder when he’s hanging out of the window, but the fact that he hasn’t held one in nearly a month now isn’t too much of a factor; it’s all muscle memory, instinctive settling of the fingers in the right places. The metal’s cool bite on his palms is a comfort. 

The first shot at the trailing car’s tyres makes him jerk back, and the Impala swerves as a hand fists the back of his shirt to keep him from toppling out onto the road. Cas yanks him back in partway before releasing him to put his hands back on the wheel. “Be careful!” he growls. 

“I’m saving our asses!” he snaps right back. 

“Balthazar, hold onto him before he ends up killing himself.” 

This time, Dean’s more secure when Balthazar holds onto him. It allows Dean to make sure he has a steadier shot when he aims the second time. 

He can’t contain his gleeful whoop when the Angels’ car screeches and turns. Now the Impala is speeding away, easily leaving them behind. Dean retreats back into the safety of the car and rolls the window back up, grinning. “You’re welcome,” he says smugly. 

But when he looks over at Cas, the man isn’t smiling. His knuckles are white on the Impala’s wheel and he’s glaring at the road ahead. The buzz from his triumph fading, Dean instead watches Cas, trying to read into the anger he can plainly see. “Cas?” 

“You could’ve been killed,” he growls. “After all that we did, after all that we _risked_ …” 

Dean clams up. He ignores the snickering from Gabriel and Balthazar in the back, along with the words ‘ _like an old married couple_ ’. He knows that joking is the only way Gabriel can keep his own spirits up, so while the comment makes him want to snap at him, he keeps his mouth shut and turns away to look out of the window again. 

* * *

They don’t stop until the sun is high in the sky and the hospital is far behind them. Cas, walking encyclopaedia of knowledge that he is, informs them that it will be easy to disappear even with such a recognisable car, as there aren’t any databases for the Angels to compare the Impala to - and then he goes on to explain that there used to be computers that could keep track of vehicles, which makes Dean glad for once that electronics aren’t used too much anymore. 

They roll into a town and pick out a house for themselves. It’s relatively large, so there’ll definitely be enough space for them all to rest comfortably while they gather themselves. It was mostly at Dean’s insistence that they stop, both so he can relieve himself and refuel with the rare lucky find of a car in the garage. It gets rolled out onto the streets so there’s room for the Impala to hide once its job is done. 

Dean follows the sound of soft voices once he’s emptied his bladder. They seem to have congregated in one of the bedrooms - one of the old stereotypes of a teenager, he thinks, judging by the tattered band posters pinned to the walls. The door is ajar, and through it he can see the four Angels crowding around the single bed. 

He can also hear Sam’s voice. 

He ignores the words and focuses on the tone as he stands, frozen, in the hallway. Sam sounds worried and confused most of all, but there’s obvious relief under his words, too. His words are a little slurred, probably from not having fully woken up yet. 

When Dean hears him say his name, he pushes the door open and heads inside. The Angels move aside for him easily. 

The fear drains from Sam’s face as soon as he sees him, although there’s still uncertainty there. “Dean? Where are we? What’s going on?” One of his hands half lift, fingers curled as he makes an aborted move to reach for him. He frowns a little, mouth opening again, and while he doesn’t speak, he mouths ‘ _Where’s…_?’ 

Dean perches on the edge of the bed. He almost misses the footsteps that signal the Angels leaving; he’s grateful for it. It makes it feel a little more homely and a little less like the hospital. It also gives him privacy to speak to his brother - not that there’s anything really sensitive to discuss, but it’s still a nice gesture. 

“Hey, Sammy,” he greets. 

Sam’s gaze snaps back to Dean’s face. He doesn’t reply now - he just stares. It’s a little unnerving, but Dean pushes past that to answer his questions. 

“We’re outta the hospital,” he says, “but we got a couple of tagalong Angels. They’re good guys, they helped us bust out.” He pauses, searching Sam’s face for something other than the unwavering stare. “You feelin’ okay?” 

Sam blinks. He looks away finally, raising a hand to rub at his eyes. “Yeah, just… tired.” He grimaces, pressing the heel of his palm against his forehead. “How… Last thing I remember, we were in a hospital…?” He closes his eyes, still frowning. “How come I wasn’t up for the journey?” 

Dean hesitates, working the words over in his head a couple of times before speaking. “They put you in a coma, Sammy. It was leverage against me.” For now, he purposefully neglects to tell him about the condition of their home. He doesn’t want to alarm him when there’s so much shit to get through already. 

Sam stiffens. “And you’re still working with them?” 

“Like I said, they’re good guys-” 

“That sounds like something Dad would say as an excuse.” 

Dean’s teeth click as they snap together. Sam’s words are like a punch in the gut, and they leave him winded, unable to come up with any kind of reply, serious, snarky, or otherwise. There’s a tug on the duvet under his butt; Dean stands as Sam pulls it up and over himself, rolling onto his side, putting his back to Dean. 

“I’m still tired,” he murmurs. “I’m going back to sleep. Goodnight, Dean.” 

Dean doesn’t move for a moment, shocked into stillness by the vicious blow Sam dealt him. He doesn’t leave until Sam’s breathing has evened out, signalling his rest. 

When he does, Cas is waiting. 

There’s a storm crackling under the Angel’s surface. His frustration has been like dark clouds heavy with rain water all day, and his expression now is the crashing clouds that rumble a warning. 

Before Cas can even open his mouth, Dean holds up a hand. “I don’t wanna hear it. I get it that I pissed you off earlier, okay? I don’t need a goddamn lecture right now. Sam’s sleeping, I’m tired too because we got up so early, and I’m gonna find the nearest bed to crash in. You guys are gonna keep watch. Got it?” 

Cas bristles, but he doesn’t object as Dean stalks past, something for which he’s incredibly grateful. He’s trying to forget what Sam said, and he can’t do that if Cas piles on with further worries. 

The first bedroom door Dean opens seems to be the master bedroom. The double bed looks awesome when compared to pretty much everything else he’s ever slept on, so he doesn’t waste time hanging around. He throws himself onto it and closes his eyes the moment his head hits the pillow. It isn’t long before sleep catches up to him and drags him under, wrapping him up in blissful darkness. 

* * *

Dean wakes to the sound of his bedroom door clicking shut. 

It doesn’t take long for his eyes to adjust, and he recognises the dark shape lingering in the doorway once they do. It’s the profile that does it, along with the distinct slouching shoulders. When the figure doesn’t move, Dean sighs and sits up, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. 

“Are you comin’ over here or not, Cas?” he asks. 

Cas stiffens briefly, but then he relaxes and moves closer to the bed. His fingertips trail over the musty duvet, coming to rest beside Dean as he perches next to him. Without hesitation, Dean reaches for his hand and lets their fingers tangle together. Cas gives them a tiny squeeze. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmurs. 

Dean shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.” He pauses, bracing himself. “Are we gonna have to talk about earlier? In the Impala?” 

He isn’t sure how to interpret Cas’ heavy exhale. 

“Dean, I don’t think you realise how important you are to me,” Cas says after a moment of torturous silence. “You opened my eyes to the corrupt system of the Angels. I was aware that not everything was perfect, but until they used Sam against you, I didn’t see it.” Dean thinks he sees his lips twitch up into a wry smile. “That’s probably how they wanted us - brainwashed into following them. 

“I don’t believe that this was the original intention of the Angels.” Cas shifts, settling on his back. Their joined hands rest on his stomach. “You saw the technology we had; we were meant to heal people, to find the cure with volunteers. We were meant to _fix_ everything.” 

Dean moves next to him, curling up against Cas’ side. It’s not just comfortable to be here, it’s _comforting_. 

Cas stops again, taking in a deep breath before he continues. “And when they exposed themselves as a corrupt system, I knew that I was doing the wrong thing. My duty is to help people, not harm them. It’s why I chose to help you and Sam. 

“Then, of course, I came to know you, and I developed feelings for you-” 

“So this is more than just a casual fuck?” 

He hears the whisper of Cas’ hair over the pillowcase, and then the rustle of his clothing as he turns onto his elbow. He drops Dean’s hand in the process, but only so he can move it to his cheek; Dean leans into the touch. 

“This was never casual for me, Dean,” he murmurs. “If you’d let me finish, you’d know that I’ve come to care very deeply about you in the short space of time we’ve known each other. You’d also know that I want to stay with you, even if you choose to roam the Zones - as long as you’ll have me.” 

The words are exactly what Dean’s wanted to hear. He needs that promise, that he’ll always have at least one person at his side, and maybe it’s even better that it’s Cas, of all people. Kind, determined, brave Cas, who won’t lie to him or say harsh words. 

It’s easy to lean forwards over that little gap and press their lips together, giving Cas his acceptance with actions instead of words. Dean’s always been better at the former, and he endeavours to convey those feelings. 

He cups Cas’ face with one hand, drawing him in closer to pick up the kiss where they’d left off days ago. Cas is only too eager, his arm looping around Dean’s waist as he fills the space between their bodies. 

Unlike the first kiss, this is filled with warmth, though it’s no less passionate. Dean finds himself needing to break away to suck in a few breaths, but it’s not long before their lips meet again, a soft groan in Dean’s throat. 

As Cas turns, moving to settle on top of him, Dean thinks that there’s also something else here that helps with having Cas with him. Dean’s three ways of releasing tension are alcohol (which is rare), violence (which he sees too much of), and sex (which is somewhere in the middle). Cas seems willing to provide the third, and Dean’s certainly not going to complain. 

There’s been so much stress recently that this is starting to look like a _fantastic_ idea, in fact. The idea is only encouraged by the tongue and teeth involved in the kiss from Cas. 

Part of Dean wonders how they managed to make it until now before giving in. Apparently, that first kiss wasn’t enough, and neither is this. 

It’s Dean who takes the step of rocking his hips up against Cas’. It’s an aborted movement, stuttered as if Dean’s trying to take it back; as much as they both seem to be raring to go, he doesn’t want to assume anything. He mumbles an apology against Cas’ lips, but it’s lost in a sudden moan from his own throat as Cas firmly presses down against him. 

He feels Cas smile. 

Then there are hands - Dean’s learning the shape of Cas’ ass, and Cas’ sliding up under the hem of his shirt, mostly. Dean wants his own taste of skin, but he’s content for the moment to start mapping out what’s in his hands, as he intents to get properly acquainted at another time. 

Dean tips his head back when Cas’ lips move to his neck, and he makes a soft sound of encouragement. He barely remembers why they should be quiet - it’s night, the other Angels are either patrolling or sleeping, but he doesn’t know who’s where. It wouldn’t surprise him to know that everyone else is aware of their relationship, but that doesn’t mean he wants them to hear anything, so Dean bites his lip when he feels a hint of teeth on his skin. 

He thinks he’s doing pretty good until things get a little more heated. 

Dean doesn’t know who it is that goes for zippers first, but soon jeans are being pushed down, Cas’ pooling around the backs of his knees while Dean’s make it to his shins. Working out who did what is suddenly less important when there’s wonderful pressure where he needs it most. 

Dean lets out a soft, strangled sound, which Cas makes an effort to muffle by kissing him again; thank God Cas knows what to do, because otherwise they’d have curious Angels at their door. 

Underwear gets shoved down somewhere after a few perfect moments of rocking. This time, Dean knows it’s him, because he’s definitely aware of the moment when he first gets to wrap his hand around Cas and stroke. He watches Cas’ face when he does it. 

Cas’ eyelids flutter and shut, lips parting as he holds himself on his elbows above Dean. Watching his expression change from surprise to pleasure is a fascinating experience, one that Dean hopes to God that he can repeat. He doesn’t even mind that his own erection is left alone for the moment, because the sight before him is plenty arousing enough. 

Dean rises up to kiss Cas again, and it’s returned hungrily. Cas kisses like Dean’s the one source of air left, like the planet is losing that as well as its dwindling number of humans. His hips shift, pressing forward eagerly into Dean’s grip, and Dean gladly obliges. 

His breath rushes out of him when Cas wriggles a hand between them to return the favour. 

It might just be mutual handjobs, but there’s much more meaning to this than what Dean used to do. This, as they said, isn’t just a casual fuck; the fact that the act is a simple one doesn’t matter, because it feels damn good to have Cas stroking him. 

It doesn’t surprise Dean that he feels heat rising in his abdomen soon after. He figures that the shortening pants of Cas’ breath on his cheeks signal his coming orgasm as well, so he works that much harder, determined to make him feel good. 

There’s a soft gasp, a murmur of “ _Dean_ ”, and he feels Cas spill over his fingers. Dean’s impressed by the fact that Cas’ rhythm doesn’t fail, and he’s also incredibly grateful for that. He can’t withhold the soft groan that escapes him as he comes, too. 

Dean’s favourite part, however, has always been the intimacy that comes afterwards. As he gets his breath back, he winds his arms around Cas, letting them settle around his lower middle as he closes his eyes and relaxes. Cas gladly tucks his face into Dean’s neck, shivering slightly with aftershocks of pleasure. 

Dean’s fingers make their way into Cas’ hair - after a quick wipe on the comforter, of course. “We need to do that again soon,” he murmurs. 

He feels Cas’ smile against his skin. “Definitely.” 

* * *

Morning brings three things. 

First: Cas snuggled up at his side. 

Second: Gabriel banging on the door. 

Third: an announcement from said Angel at the door that Sam is awake again. 

Unlike yesterday, Dean feels reluctant to see his brother. He stays flat on his back, gnawing on his lip as he wonders whether it’s wise to visit him. What Sam said still hurts; comparing him to John was a low blow, even if he was disorientated from being out of it for so long. 

It takes Cas sitting up and pushing at his shoulder to get him up. “Go. Talk to him,” he insists gently. “I need to speak to the others about our situation.” 

It’s more nerve-wracking than it should be to hesitate at the door to Sam’s room, but he can hear muffled conversation inside, so he grits his teeth and opens it. 

Surprisingly, it’s Gabriel sat at Sam’s bedside, quietly explaining things to him. Sam’s gaze is fixed on the Angel, drinking in the information given to him. He seems more aware than he did yesterday, when his attention was drifting and sleep quickly overcame him again. 

He glances up when Dean enters, and he’s thoroughly surprised to see relief and joy spread across Sam’s face in equal measure. It’s confusing, too. Dean was expecting Sam to be wearing a cool mask, like he usually is after arguments, but instead he’s just welcoming Dean into his safe space. 

“Gabe said you’d be here soon,” Sam says in lieu of a greeting. 

“‘Gabe’?” Dean quotes, raising his eyebrows at the shortened version of his name. 

Sam nods, and ‘Gabe’ grins. “Me and Sammy here have been getting to know each other while you were busy sucking face with Cas.” 

Dean feels the tingle of redness in his cheeks, but he ignores it. “Speaking of Cas, I think he wants to talk to you all. Something about our position.” 

“Woah, Dean-o, I don’t wanna know jack about how you two got freaky last night-” 

“Gabe.” 

Amazingly, the one word from Sam stops Gabriel in his tracks. He pouts, frustrated, but gets up from his chair at Sam’s bedside and slouches for the door. “Fine. I’ll leave you two ladies to gossip while the adults save the day.” 

Dean muttered ‘asshole’ as he passed, heading for Gabriel’s vacated seat, but he only got a chuckle from the Angel as he left. The door clicking shut is a blessing - although it’s more of a blessing in disguise in Dean’s opinion, because he’s left with Sam’s simple trusting expression. 

It occurs to him then that Sam doesn’t seem to remember. His features crinkle with confusion when Dean just stands there, watching, which starts up a cycle of confusion, endless until Dean screws up the courage to shatter it with his question. 

“What do you remember?” 

“Gabe explained a lot to me,” Sam says instantly, gushing with enthusiasm. He’s even pushing the covers back from the bed he’s been settled in, moving to sit up. It’s the most energetic Dean’s seen him in weeks. “He says he and his - your - friends got us out of the church.” 

“I’ve met Anna and Balthazar as well,” Sam says. As Dean sits, Sam raises his eyebrows before he adds, “What Gabe said, was that true? About you and Cas?” 

Dean glances away, gives a heavy exhale, and nods. 

To his relief, Sam just smiles. “Great. From what Gabe says, it’s about time you two got together.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean scoffs, a smile breaking across his lips despite himself. “What do you know, you’ve been sleeping for most of it, you lazy asshole.” 

“And you’ve been ogling the Angel,” Sam shoots back with a grin. 

Before Dean can come up with a suitable retort, said Angel pokes his head through the door. He gives Dean a soft smile before offering Sam another one, one that’s more friendly rather than the intimate warmth he gives Dean. 

“It’s good to see you awake, Sam,” Cas says. 

“It’s good to _be_ awake,” Sam replies. 

Pleasantries exchanged, Cas turns his attention back to Dean, a more serious expression on his face - not that that’s very new; most of his expressions are grave ones, Dean’s noticed. “Dean, we’d like it if you could join us downstairs for this discussion, since it impacts you, too. Sam, you’re welcome to follow if you’re feeling well enough.” 

Sam nods, bracing himself on the mattress. “I’m coming. I’ve missed too much already.” 

When he stands, he wobbles, and Dean immediately rises to latch onto him to support Sam. The hurt from before has faded, becoming little more than a dull ache in his chest; Dean’s hoping he can put the cause behind him by ignoring it. This hope is what lets him hold Sam up and lets him say “Easy, tiger” in a faintly amused voice. 

“I’m fine,” Sam insists, although he leans more heavily on Dean and casts him a quick, grateful smile. 

“You’re about as fine as Bessie probably is now,” Dean replies simply. He slides his arm under Sam’s shoulders, hoisting him up. “C’mon, let’s get you downstairs. And we need to find you some clothes, man, not this hospital scrubs crap. I think there’s stuff in the Impala’s trunk.” 

“We’ll wait,” Cas promises. “I’d like to give you all the time you want, but we don’t have that to spare, unfortunately, so please hurry.” 

* * *

They end up huddled mostly around the kitchen’s rotting wooden table; it creaks dangerously whenever someone leans on it, and Dean announces upon seeing it that Sam isn’t to touch it in his precarious state. He knows that he gets given a dirty look for the order, but Sam complies anyway, folding his arms tightly over his chest as he stands next to Dean. 

Anna is stationed at one of the windows in the kitchen while Balthazar is in the living room, keeping watch in case hordes of the undead or searching Angels should make their way through their current hideout. Dean ignores the way Gabriel has sidled up on Sam’s other side, making himself at home after sharing a friendly smile with him. 

Cas is standing in the centre of the kitchen, a bag in his hands, which contains their very limited supply of food: just a few tins and cans, nothing more. 

“Shit,” Dean says. 

“That’s one way of putting it,” Gabriel agrees. 

“So.” Dean looks up at Cas. “Plan?” 

Cas sighs, setting the bag down gingerly on the table. “I suggest that we continue with our originally planned course: to Zone 23. We’ll be able to see the Zone itself, and perhaps we’ll find further supplies.” 

Dean hesitates, then says, “That seems like a pretty big gamble, don’t you think?” He sees Sam shoot a curious glance his way, but his brother doesn’t say anything, which is intriguing; does he not remember about their home’s supposed condition? Maybe that’s why Cas is being vague, he reasons. 

When Cas meets his eye, he holds his gaze for a moment. Dean can’t quite decipher his expression, but he knows that Cas is trying to convey something. 

Unfortunately, Dean can’t read minds, Gabriel isn’t trying to work out the look, and Sam isn’t blind. 

“What?” Sam asks, frowning. “What am I missing?” 

Moment broken, Dean shrugs, averting his gaze as he heads over to the bag to inspect its contents. None of it seems very appealing, but it’ll keep them going at least. 

As Cas asks Gabriel to inform Sam fully of everything - he hears Sam’s huff when he learns that information has been kept from him - Dean feels the familiar itch under his skin that makes him want to move. He needs to get out on the road, to be behind the Impala’s wheel and learn her all over again; he barely had a chance before he lost her. She probably needs tuning up, but he doesn’t have the tools with him to do that right now, not unless they find somewhere secure to settle that has a garage. 

What he wouldn’t give to have the time and the safety to do just that, to open up her hood and get elbow-deep in motor oil. Dean wishes he knew what a normal life was like, where he could do that out in the sun without the fear that a zombie might seize him by the shirt and sink its filthy teeth into his skin. It’s a miracle that Sam’s still human, and Dean seriously doubts that that would to extend to him. 

Dean grimaces, turning a can over in his hands, running his fingers over the crinkled label that probably doesn’t even relate to what’s inside; the food has probably been eaten and replaced by other rations long ago. He almost forgot that Sam’s blood is one hell of a question mark right now. Dean knows without a doubt that Sam will want to do something with his blood to help people. 

Hell, maybe they can set up their own organisation, a purer one than the angels, one build on free will instead of lies and mystery. 

_Team Free Will_. It has a nice ring to it, he thinks. 

;

* * *

“Oh, baby, I’ve _missed_ you.” 

“Careful, Dean, you don’t wanna make Cas jealous.” 

Dean snorts, skimming his palm over the Impala’s roof with a reverent expression. Her metal is cool to the touch from being inside; the temperature cools his nerves like a breath of fresh air after being in a stuffy room. As he reaches the driver’s side door, he eagerly opens it and slides onto the leather, settling into the seat that is just comfortable enough to relax in while on a leisurely drive. 

“We’re gonna need to cuddle,” Gabriel says. 

Dean’s gaze snaps up, a frown on his face. “What?” 

“There’s only enough seats for five people,” he explains, nodding towards the Impala. He jerks his thumb back at the Angels and Sam. “There’s six of us altogether, genius.” 

“Well…” Dean lets his hands fall to his thighs, biting the inside of his cheek briefly. “Two of you will just have to share the front seat, unless anyone wants to sit on someone’s lap.” 

Surprisingly, it’s Sam that offers his knees. He shrugs, opening the back door and sliding along the bench to the opposite door. “Gabriel’s the smallest, so I guess it makes sense for us to do that. Plus,” he continues, smiling now, “it’s not like you and Cas can do it since you’re driving.” 

Dean’s cheeks tingle as they turn a little pinker. “Keep your hands to yourself,” he growls, jabbing his finger in Gabriel’s direction. He gets a salute in return as the Angel ducks into the Impala. 

“I’ll take the front so Cassie doesn’t distract the designated driver,” Balthazar adds. He ruffles Cas’ hair as he passes, ignoring Dean’s dirty look. 

Cas casts Anna a pleading look. “Please take the middle seat.” 

She smiles softly, a hint of amusement to her lips as she gently touches Cas’ elbow. “Don’t worry, brother. I’ve got your back.” 

Dean has to bite the inside of his lip to hide his own smile at that one, although his is fonder. Anna is easily the favourite of the Angels, aside from Cas; she’s like him but wholly different in a way that makes them separate entities. There’s always someone on Cas’ side when Balthazar and Gabriel insist on teasing; Dean gets the impression that they might even be actual siblings, that ‘brother’ wasn’t just an endearment left from Angelic indoctrination, but he could be mistaken. 

Cas waits out of the Impala to shove open the garage door. Dean winces as it squeals on its rails, surely alerting every zombie that might be stumbling through town to their location. The Impala is already purring, ready to leap into action at the press of a pedal, so all it takes is for Cas’ door to click shut before Dean’s encouraging the car to make her move. 

This feels like control. Dean takes a deep breath as he directs the Impala over the broken roads, letting the relief flow through his blood. Even with Sam telling Balthazar where the map is so they can work their way back to Zone 23, Dean still feels in control, which is more than he’s had in the last month or two. Ever since John vanished, it’s been one thing after another - finding Dad, saving Sam, escaping the Angels. 

Dean’s never really owned the Impala and he’s never really had a home, but this sure feels like it. The addition of playful banter from other voices and a warm blue gaze in the mirror when he glances back are unexpected bonuses, and if he smiles a little while he drives, nobody questions why. 

* * *

They’re only a day into their drive when they see it. They’re only passing through a new town when Cas leans forwards between Dean and Balthazar, peering out of the front. Dean can tell just by the way he’s so still that something’s up. 

“What’s wrong, Cas?” he asks. 

Cas doesn’t answer for a moment; he hears him murmur ‘come here’ to Anna, and she joins him to observe whatever it is that’s caught their attention. Her slight gasp is enough to get Dean to repeat his question. Frustratingly, it’s Balthazar that answers. 

“Look over there, moron,” he scoffs, pointing. 

The Impala slows as Dean looks. He squints, leaning forwards, until he sees what it is exactly that Balthazar is showing him. 

It’s a symbol, painted in red onto the side of an old convenience store. It seems simple enough: it’s a circle, with a shape like a ‘Z’ inside that, interrupted by a second, smaller circle in the very centre. 

“What the fuck is that?” 

“In old lore, it would be used to summon a creature called a _daeva_ ,” Cas explains. He doesn’t return to his seat, and Dean’s heartbeat speeds up slightly in worry when he hears the click of a gun being readied. “They were supposedly invisible and incredibly strong, and bent to the will of their masters while the sigil was intact.” 

“Dean, keep driving,” Sam says, and then adds, “So? What’s so important about that?” 

“It’s also the symbol of another band of survivors,” Cas continues. “Demons. We have reason to believe that they might have had a hand in beginning the apocalypse in the first place.” 

“The zombie virus?” 

Dean glances up into the rearview mirror to see Cas’ grim nod. “Exactly. If their logo is here, it’s likely that they are, too. We can’t afford to linger. If they’ve seen us, they’ll follow. Dean, get us out of here immediately.” 

The Impala growls as he presses on the pedal. “Working on it.” 

Even when they leave the town behind, Cas doesn’t put his gun away. He stays poised, even though he’s retreated to his seat. Dean’s glad when Sam decides to be his nosy self and ask questions to soothe him, whether the distraction is intended or not. 

“Shouldn’t we be calling zombies ‘ _daeva_ ’, then?” “No. They’re nothing like the creatures the sigil was used for. The only similarity is perhaps that they have no qualms in turning on their masters once the hold is broken.” He sighs. “I doubt that the Demons even know much about _daeva_ , unless they were striving to really summon them and failed.” 

There’s shifting in the back as Cas leans forwards again briefly. “We can’t stop now. The Demons _will_ track us if they have seen us. If they discover that there are ex-Angels as well as a living example of a survivor, they won’t hesitate to capture us with any means they desire. We’ll have to take shifts driving and sleeping until we find a safe location.” 

“Fine by me,” Dean says, shrugging slightly. “But only chosen people get to drive the Impala.” 

“You, my friend, are an arsehole,” Balthazar comments. “Let’s hear it, then. I suppose Gabriel and I will be split up?” 

“Duh.” 

“You’re a child.” 

“And you’re a dick that I don’t trust with my car.” Dean can’t help a small smirk from pulling on his lips. “Everyone but you and Gabriel are allowed to drive her.” 

“Hey!” Gabriel thumps on the back of Balthazar’s seat in his eagerness to clamber forwards; he’s not even that careful of Sam, who gets kneed in the stomach by accident. “Crap, sorry, Sammy- But what the hell, Dean? What did I do?” 

Dean’s smile widens. “You’re an asshole, plain and simple.” 

“That’s not a good reason for me not to drive!” 

“You and Balthazar can have shotgun,” Dean says easily. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye out for zombies and Demons. We might as well have two people get good at it. One driver, one shooter, one navigator per team.” 

Gabriel’s silence is a clear indicator that he’s admitted the beauty of that arrangement. Smug, Dean casts a glance back at him, and sees he’s slumped back against Sam’s chest with his arms folded, looking almost like a grumpy child. He flips Dean off before he turns back to the road ahead. 

“Anything else, Cas?” he asks. 

There’s a pause, and then, “We just drive.” 

* * *

They have to stop as the sun is setting to swap drivers. Dean’s ended up with Cas and Balthazar on his team, and Sam says he doesn’t feel awake enough to drive yet, so Anna settles behind the wheel. Gabriel switches with Balthazar, and Dean gladly - with his obligatory growling manner - takes up the spot on Cas’ lap. 

Dean’s pulling the door shut when he hears the telltale rattling moans of zombies. It’s been so long since he’s heard the raspy sound that it chills him to the bone, leaving him feeling cold with dread and fear. Before, he only had one person to protect - now he has two. One might well be immune to their poison, but the other really isn’t. 

He slams his door shut, securing them in the Impala’s walls - it’ll do for the moment. “Where the fuck are they?” he growls, twisting to look out of the back window. 

Cas grimaces, grabbing onto Dean’s sides as he too peers out, only he looks through the front. “Dean, please stop squirming,” he murmurs, just quietly enough for him to hear. 

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna get a boner now,” he mutters back. 

He hears a soft snort. “No, but you’re going to crush something sensitive, and you’ll be down one soldier for a few precious minutes.” 

“Point taken.” 

Now he can see sloping figures stumbling across the cracked roads, following the fresh scents of humanity and life lingering in the air. Dead hands reach even though they’re still far away; mouths hang open, hungry growls spilling from their throats. It’s a group, alright, and now that they’ve seen their prey, they’re zeroing in. 

“Cas,” Anna calls, “make a decision!” 

It doesn’t bother Dean, surprisingly, that they’ve all accepted Cas as the go-to leader whenever a situation arises. He falls into the position naturally, it seems, and he hasn’t been wrong yet. 

His decision takes just a moment too long. 

The Impala rocks with the force of something knocking into its side. Dean whips around as he flings out a hand to the front bench, using it to stop himself from falling into Balthazar’s lap instead. zombies are pressing up against the glass on Cas’ side - why would they want Sam’s? He smells like one of their own now, if their theory from the church is anything to go by, they won’t want to touch him. 

Small mercies. 

“Drive!” Cas spits. He flings out an arm, pushing Dean backwards, away from the window, so he ends up sprawling across the laps of Sam and Balthazar anyway, his sweaty hands slipping on the Impala’s seats. The lurch as she bucks forwards doesn’t help him keep his balance either. 

The undead are no match for the car’s rising speed, but another vehicle is a whole other story. 

Dean almost can’t hear the other engine until he splits the two differing rumbles in his head. He pushes himself back up, scrambling to recover the pistol in the glove compartment - there’s one in the backseat too, just to be safe - and it’s only when he sees a jeep remarkably similar to the one from their Zone that he realises. 

He doesn’t recognise the faces in its front from the glimpses he gets, but he does notice the _daeva_ symbol on its door. 

“Demons!” he barks. 

Cas hisses wordlessly, twisting to see where Dean’s pointing. “I didn’t think they’d catch us so fast.” 

“It makes sense,” Sam replies. Balthazar has armed himself, and Dean is in the process of freeing another handgun for Sam so he can wield one, too. “The quicker they follow us, the more chance they have of catching us.” 

“We’re boned,” Gabriel says in a cheery tone. 

“Watch our front,” Cas orders. 

Anna’s voice is firm, yet also somehow optimistic. “We’re fine for the moment. It’s back by the zombies. We have time to outrun them.” 

Theres a brief, tense pause, and then Gabriel murmurs, “We’re uber boned.” 

“Just - watch,” Cas growls. 

* * *

Night has fallen by the time the Demon jeep is out of sight. It doesn’t make Dean feel any safer, or any more inclined to try to sleep. 

The Impala is silent but for the rumble of her wheels on the road and the soft breaths of the others. Gabriel and Sam keep watch while Anna drives; Balthazar is already slumbering, his head tipped back against the seat as he snores quietly; when Dean looks, Cas’ eyes are closed, but he doesn’t know if that actually means he’s asleep. 

It’s not for lack of trying. Dean’s done his best to get comfortable, curling up on Cas’ lap in a way that, hopefully, won’t get him teased by his brother later. In theory, he should feel safe when he’s in the Impala and has Cas with him. 

But he doesn’t. Dean feels hunted in a way that he’s never felt before. Rather than feeling free, this now feels like an extension of the trap the Angels had them in, only far darker - the Angels might well have twisted means of procuring an antidote, but Cas seems to think that the zombies came from the Demons. 

Dean’s well aware that he’s of no benefit to the Demons if they eventually catch up. They’ll gladly take the Angels - their rivals - and the carrier of the cure, but Dean has nothing to offer other than brute force. The Angels tried to take advantage of that, and he’s not willing to let it happen again. If they attack, he’s already decided that he’s going to go down trying to get his family _out_. 

Family. It’s an odd thought, yet an appealing one. He’s only ever really had Sam, Benny, and Bobby as family - two brothers and an adopted father. Looking back, he can see now that John never really was a parent like Bobby was. He doesn’t know yet how these four wayward Angels fit into that family unit, but he knows that he wants to keep them. 

Dean shifts, cracking open his eyes to look at Cas. He can see now that he’s asleep; the lines in his face are smoothed out, his breathing slow and deep. The dim light from the moon outside casts little flickers across his features. 

It’s kind of a beautiful picture, Dean thinks. 

He closes his eyes again, tucking his face into Cas’ neck. It’s warm and comforting there. Relationships have never really been his thing, but this feels different. Being with Cas feels good in a way that no other partnership has. Really, he’s everything Dean needs; he’s already promised he’ll stay with him if he wants the company, he’s brave, smart, funny, and, admittedly, hot. All of the boxes have been ticked in Dean’s book. 

He’s also really nice to slowly fall asleep on. Just as Dean drifts off, he feels an arm curl around his waist, and a gentle smile crosses his lips. 

* * *

The rest of the journey is, for the most part, uneventful. Dean’s glad to get behind the wheel again; it’s not that he doesn’t trust Anna, but he just feels safer, especially when they catch small glimpses of the jeep now and again. In the hours leading up to the approach of Zone 23, it fades into the distance, and Dean breathes easier. 

Cas does not. He remains on alert, and nothing anyone can say changes that. Not even Balthazar and Gabriel’s antics snap him out of it - Cas is like a guard dog, ears pricked and hackles raised. Dean has to ignore him so Cas’ wariness doesn’t seep into the calm mood he’s currently cherishing. 

He can feel nervous energy teasing at the edges of that cool cloud in his head, and it has his fingers tightening slightly on the Impala’s wheel. Even if he pretends, Dean can’t quite fully brush off the fact that the hair on the back of his neck is prickling, and no amount of enjoying the drive or listening to the murmured conversations can change that. 

Soon, the landscape becomes familiar. Dean doesn’t know how long exactly it’s been since he last travelled these roads, but he thinks it’s nearing a couple of months; time felt suspended in the Angel base, unreal and passing in a daze, until suddenly it lurched into motion when they stepped foot outside of its gates. There was, admittedly, something comforting that he’s never known inside those walls: the safety of constancy. It wasn’t enough to enchant him though, something which Dean will be eternally grateful for. 

As he drives further, Dean’s brow furrows with confusion. He can remember clearly the image that he’d been shown, the one that had showed the Zone as a broken husk of a town. The chain-link fences have no movement beyond them, but the buildings still stand tall and proud, ready to protect its citizens. 

But it’s deadly quiet, and Dean soon sees why. 

The once busy, bustling gates - the hub of missions, ones to recover essential things like food and long-abandoned goodies - are flung wide open, a gaping hole that zombies shuffle through even now. There’s no rush to their movements; they take slow, wandering steps, arms limp at their sides as they walk wherever looks interesting to them. Dean’s stomach turns when he sees the remains of clothing piled in a corner, where one of them must have dragged its meal to eat in safety from its comrades. 

Even if it’s a ghost town, it’s a start. It’s somewhere to camp down and gather their bearings before they decide what to do next. There are supplies - Dean knows that there are always emergency ones stashed away in case this very event occurs. It might not be the home he once knew, but it damn well feels like it. 

He forgets that Sam doesn’t know that the Zone is destroyed until he his brother damn near jumps out of the car. 

As soon as Dean hears the click as the door opens, he slams his foot on the breaks and halts the car, not that they were going very fast. He twists, moving to seize his sleeve, but Cas and Anna have beaten him to it, lunging over to grab onto him and haul him back. 

“Let me go!” he snarls, flinging out an arm. Sam’s hand grasps at the door, fingers curling around the handle as he tries to pull himself back up. “Let me _go_ , for God’s sake! _Jess_!” 

Dean’s stomach plummets. Part of him acknowledges that he’d been banking on the Angels lying, that the Zone would be fine, that Sam could go back to his apple pie life while Dean and Cas became partners in monster hunting. Obviously, he was wrong. 

The zombies have heard Sam’s cries and have looked up, scenting the air with cocked heads. Dean growls, “Hold onto him,” and throws the Impala into reverse. Tucking themselves away until they can calm Sam is their best bet. 

Dean knows a place. 

It’s a warehouse on the outskirts of what would have been Zone 23’s town - not strictly the best place to hide in a zombie apocalypse, but it does the trick for a short stay. He parks the Impala out front, tosses an order at Gabriel to keep watch, and lets himself out of the car. 

Sam’s still struggling even when Dean hauls him out of the door with his hands curled into the flaps of his jacket. When Sam moves to throw him off, Dean just pushes him against the side of the Impala. 

The rage in Sam’s eyes isn’t something he’s seen before. Dean’s seen hurt, he’s seen joy, and he’s seen loss, but he’s never seen true, pure anger in his brother until this moment. Oh, there are tears there, too - they cling to Sam’s eyelashes, unshed - but his hands are curled into fists at his sides, shaking slightly with the effort of keeping them there. 

When he speaks, there is a faint tremble to his voice, a waver that speaks of his heartbreak. “Where is she?” he demands. 

Dean wishes he had a proper answer, but all he can give his brother is, “I don’t know.” 

“Bullshit.” Sam pushes back, shoving Dean off, and takes a step towards him with a pointed finger. “You weren’t surprised to see that something had happened. You were confused, Dean.” 

He swallows hard, gritting his teeth as he lets Sam get it all out, but Sam only takes it as encouragement, forcing Dean to take another step back as he moves forwards. Over his brother’s shoulder, Dean sees Cas and Gabriel getting out of the car. 

“Tell me what you know, Dean,” Sam demands. He exhales heavily, as if trying to breathe out his anger. He was always better at controlling it than Dean; he can use words and techniques, while Dean needs real, solid action, preferably of the violent kind. 

Dean folds his arms, raises his chin, and begins. “I knew that the Zone had been attacked. Zachariah showed us proof that it had happened, but it turns out it wasn’t- it wasn’t destroyed, just invaded.” He licks his lips, giving a small nod as he continues. “You don’t remember because it was just before they stuck you in a coma. I don’t think you remember when you first woke up, either. I figure that’s part and parcel of coming outta of one.” 

Sam’s silent for a moment as he digests this. He works his jaw, dropping his gaze as he blinks back tears. He looks less angry now and more… defeated. Somehow, that’s worse. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispers. 

“Because I knew you’d flip out.” 

“I was gonna find out sooner or later.” 

“I know. I’m sorry.” 

To his surprise, Sam laughs bitterly. “Like you fucking know how this feels. Don’t pretend, Dean.” 

The words make his blood boil, but he firmly presses it down. “Yeah, I do, actually. Not the pain, but the… the other stuff.” 

Dean’s been watching Cas and Gabriel behind Sam, and now Cas pauses, meeting his gaze. There’s something surprised and yet warm in the look he’s given, which is a blessing after the hours of tension he’s been getting from his… partner. 

Sam seems about to reply, but Dean’s distracted by Cas’ sudden shift in demeanour. His hand flies to his gun, tucked into his belt, as he and Gabriel both start forwards. Working on instinct, Dean seizes Sam and pulls him towards the Angels, ignoring his startled “Hey!” 

Wheels. Dean hears wheels crunching on gravel. 

Why would any other vehicle come this way? 

He turns, and he only needs to see the _daeva_ symbol to have it all figured out. 

A slight figure slides out of the passenger seat, a head of long, dark hair on her head. It’s only now that they’re up close that Dean hears the bark of dogs in the back of the keep, and his heart stutters in his chest; of all the things to be scared of in this situation, it’s dogs. Thankfully, he’s never encountered them too often, but now that they’re close he can’t help taking a step closer to Cas- 

Who has his gun drawn, but hanging at his side. 

“Cas?” he hisses. 

Cas just shakes his head. 

The woman has rounded the jeep now, and a smile is creeping across her lips, teasing as she settles her gaze on Cas. Dean doesn’t like the way she flicks it up and down him before she meets his eyes. 

“Fancy meeting you here, Clarence,” she purrs. 

Dean hears car doors again, but this time they’re from behind him. Anna and Balthazar stand on Cas’ other side, while Gabriel plants himself next to Sam. The line they present is comforting, but probably not all that helpful in the grand scheme of things, especially if the Demons are as bad as Cas seems to think they are. 

“Get back to the car,” Dean mutters. He pats his side, drawing his Colt when he finds it. Cas might not want to appear armed, but Dean sure does. 

“Cassie?” Balthazar questions, turning it over to him. At Cas’ slight nod, Balthazar sighs heavily and troops back again, Anna at his heels after she’s touched Cas’ elbow lightly. 

“My,” the Demon says, smirking, “look at you, being a leader. Maybe it’ll turn out nicely this time, huh?” 

Dean shoots a glance at Cas at the moment he stiffens. His expression has hardened slightly, and Dean recognises the technique of putting up one’s shields so taunts don’t dig too deep. He wants to know what the Demon means by that, but he keeps his mouth shut for now. 

“You could even call it a garrison-” 

“Enough, Meg.” 

There’s history here, evidently. 

Her gaze travels along the line, smile widening with amusement as it passes over them. “Quite the assembly you got here,” she comments. “Shame it’s not gonna last, huh? All you birds flocking together was just asking to be caught, Clarence.” 

Dean’s tired of being quiet. He snorts, pasting a clearly fake smile on his face. “Yeah, not gonna happen. We’ll just be on our way.” 

He grasps Cas’ sleeve, tugging lightly as he makes to move back. The last thing Dean wants to do is back down - in fact, he’d rather fight his way out - but the only smart choice, he’s learned, is to try the diplomatic route if he wants to keep his little group alive. 

It doesn’t quite work out. 

In a fluid motion, Meg swings up a gun that she’d had tucked in her belt. She points it at Sam - Dean has a moment to freeze and panic, because how the hell can she know that he’s the perfect hostage to pick? Then it occurs to him that she’s probably familiar with the Angels, so she’s likely just assuming that he’s her best bet. 

Her smile is still playful. 

“I don’t think so, Ken Doll. We’re all gonna stay right here.” She reaches back, raps her knuckles on the side of the jeep. “Bring out the pooches.” 

Another person steps out of the back, and Dean’s heart flutters uneasily in his chest at the low snarls that greet his ears. There’s a jangling of a chain and paws scraping across the ground, and, as he looks, the hint of a large dog around the back of the jeep. Two, if the second growl is anything to go by. 

He swallows hard and clamps down on his fear. He remembers with clarity the time when he’d first come into real contact with a dog. It was a scrawny, bony thing, clearly in need of a good meal. Rather than being friendly as he’d expected, it had launched itself at him with the intention of getting itself the snack it sorely needed in the form of a young boy. The feeling of teeth in his skin - before John had hauled it off and dealt with it - had fixed in Dean a permanent terror of dogs and bites, the latter of which wasn’t really a terrible thing to have. 

However, as a second Demon rounds the jeep with two rottweilers in tow, Dean’s nerve breaks. His fingers tighten in Cas’ sleeve, clinging to him as he keeps his gaze fixed on the dogs. 

Cas’ arm twists under his grip, and for a moment Dean fears that he’s going to pull free, but instead he just holds onto him and lowers his voice to murmur, “Dean?” 

He grits his teeth. “Dogs.” 

Meg laughs. “Looks like we’ve got a scaredy cat!” 

Dean shoots a glare at her. “I’m not scared. Just get to the fucking point of all this horseshit.” 

“I think you know.” She raises her eyebrows, one corner of her lips shifting higher than the other. “A little birdy named Zachariah told us that he made a deal with the Devil, and it’s our job to follow up. 

“He wants his flock back.” She gestures at the Angels with the muzzle of her gun lazily. Dean doesn’t raise his arm, even though it’s a perfect opportunity; the dogs are pulling at their leashes, lips dribbling with spittle. “And his little science experiment, of course.” 

Meg’s eyes slide back to Dean. “You… not so much. He just said you might be a handful. See, I was thinking about taking you out so you wouldn’t cause trouble, but then I saw that.” She nods down, towards where Dean’s fingers have shifted to hold Cas’ wrist rather than his sleeve. “Didn’t know you were the type to keep a partner, Clarence.” 

Dean frowns, head tilting slightly as he tries to work out what that’s meant to mean. “Wait… Do you guys-” 

““It seems that I was wrong about her alliance. You were a double agent, weren’t you?” Cas narrows his eyes at her, lips thinning. 

“It took you long enough. Let’s cut to the chase; I’m bored of waiting.” Meg gestures again, stepping back to leave a gap between herself and the Demon with the dogs. “In the van or I’ll put a bullet in this handsome boy here.” 

“Keep your paws off-” Gabriel begins to snap, but Dean neatly cuts in. 

His mind is buzzing with a realisation: if she intends to take them back to the Angels, then she can’t shoot Sam lethally. Zachariah will want the other four, for sure. That leaves Dean as the only one that has the potential to die here. He doesn’t care about his own life too much, not if he can use it to get the others free. He lets go of Cas’ wrist. 

Calmly, he says, “Poughkeepsie.” 

_Drop everything and run_. 

Dean’s Colt hits the grass beneath his feet at the same moment he launches himself towards Meg. 

There are footsteps and panicked shouts, fingers trying to grasp at the back of his jacket, but Dean pulls free. He barrells into Meg, knocking her back into the side of the jeep with a rattling thump. She snarls, and suddenly she’s like one of the dogs, a wild, clawing animal. 

Over the pounding of his heart, Dean notices a couple of gunshots behind him as he wrestles with Meg - a cry of pain, unfamiliar, thankfully. 

Then there are teeth sinking into his ankle, which he’s less thankful for. 

Panic sears through him, forcing him to let go of Meg as he turns to the dog instead. For a moment, he genuinely fears that a zombie has crawled towards him, until he remembers the canines present and the fact that zombies always get back onto their feet when they fall. Hot pain combines with the fear to cripple him, and Dean grabs at the jeep’s door handle as he tumbles in a desperate attempt to stay up. 

A sharp crack meets his ears when his shoulder is the next to go. His fingers twitch and slide as he grasps at his fresh bullet wound with a moan, staining his skin red as he scrabbles at it, as if he can make sure it’s not real simply through touch. He twists, sending out a sharp kick at the dog so he can press his back against the jeep. 

The scent of blood drives the remaining dog into a frenzy - where’s the other? Dean doesn’t know, he can barely see through the haze of pain taking over his brain. 

He knows he’s done for. He can only hope that the others made it out okay. 

He hopes Cas doesn’t hate him. 

The dog yanks hard and Dean falls without resistance. He hits his head when he falls, and the world goes black. 

* * *

When he comes to, he’s in a comfortable bed. He aches all over - literally from head to toe, judging by his headache and his bandaged ankle. The fear he feels has his eyes flying open though, and he wonders if this is how Sam felt when he woke up in a strange bed. 

Cas is immediately filling his vision, his palms cupping his cheeks and murmuring soothing nonsense to him. Dean exhales again, relaxing, and reaches up to return the favour, tracing his fingertips over Cas’ features wordlessly. He knows he’s going to get shit later - either from Sam for being so cute or Cas for making his daredevil move (he’s still surprised he’s alive, actually), but for now he just wants to relish this. 

“I’m glad you’re alive,” Cas says quietly, “because it means I can kill you instead. What were you thinking?” 

Dean lets out a soft groan. “Can we not do this now? I hurt.” 

Cas frowns, but nods. “Later,” he says firmly. “How do you feel?” 

“Like shit.” He sighs, trying to push himself up. Cas helps, carefully lifting him to tuck a pillow behind his back. Looking around, Dean notices that they’re only in a curtained off area, and his cot is tucked up against a corner of wall. He’s with it enough to realise that they must be in the warehouse; why would they take him anywhere else when he was bleeding out? “What happened?” he asks. 

Cas sits down in a wooden chair at his side, linking his fingers with Dean’s when he reaches for him. “Well, to make a long story short, I think we found your Zone. This warehouse seems to have become their new base. Once they heard the commotion, they came to our aid.” 

He inhales sharply, eyes widening. “What? Who’s here? Who made it?” 

“A man by the name of Benny was the first to introduce himself. He said that he was your friend, and that I could trust him to take care of you.” Cas glances towards the curtains when they twitch and the very man he’s speaking of pulls them back. 

Benny looks tired and battle-worn, but there’s that same old twinkle in his eye as he looks at Dean. “Hey, brother,” he greets. 

Dean can’t help the smile that pulls on his lips. “Hey, Benny. You’re lookin’ good.” 

“Wish I could say the same for you.” The curtains swings back into place as Benny lets himself into the makeshift room, chuckling. “Good thing your Angel here’s a smart one. At least your taste’s gotten better.” 

“Shut up.” Dean sighs, but his smile widens. It fades a little after a moment, though. “How badly fucked up am I?” 

“You hit your head when you fell,” Cas reports, tone business-like, “your ankle is suffering from a bite but it’s healing fine, and you were shot in the shoulder. You passed out before the cavalry arrived.” 

“No heavy lifting for you until the doctor gives her go-ahead,” Benny adds, folding his arms. Dean’s never been able to argue with him when he gets like this, all firm and knowing because, at the end of the day, Benny’s a little older and more experienced than him. “You, Sam, and your Angel are gonna take it nice and easy.” 

Dean’s heart skips a beat. “Sam-” 

“Is with the doc now,” Benny cuts in smoothly. “And don’t worry, s’all completely his choice. Gabriel was kind enough to explain the problem y’all had back with your flock.” 

Cas’ lips thin a little. “I wouldn’t call it a flock. More like a herd. It’s poisonous.” 

“We’re outta there now. Doesn’t matter anymore.” Dean closes his eyes, shuffling back down into bed a little. “‘M tired. Tell Sammy I said hi, an’ that I’m sorry for jumpin’ into a fight.” 

The swish of the curtain announces Benny’s exit, and Cas chuckles quietly. “It’s fine, Dean. Get some rest.” 

Dean does as Cas says. 

* * *

Having to use Cas as a crutch just so he can walk is more than a little embarrassing. Dean feels weak but determined to see their surroundings, so he limps out of his little room with his arm looped around Cas’ shoulders after getting dressed in clean clothes that were rescued from the Impala’s trunk. 

It turns out that the room his corner is tucked into is off of the main, large part of the warehouse; he recognises the bags by the cots to be those of the Angels and Sam, so he doesn’t feel too bad about having his own curtained off area. One bed is neatly made with its bag sat at the end. He shoots Cas a suspicious look as they shuffle past, but Cas doesn’t seem to notice it. 

The main part isn’t exactly bustling with activity, even though there’s movement; it’s more sedate and comfortable than the atmosphere with the Angels had been, and here Dean doesn’t feel like he’s unable to leave if he wants to - then again, why would he want to? This is Zone 23, his home, where his friends and family are. 

Speaking of… 

“Cas, can we find Benny? I wanna talk to him.” 

“Of course.” They pause and, once they’ve spotted him, Cas begins to lead Dean that way. “What about?” 

“What happened to home.” Dean grunts and shifts himself a little higher, hissing when the movement jostles him enough to hurt his opposite shoulder. His head feels fine now, but the dog really did a number on his ankle and Benny’s doctor - a cheerful girl by the name of Charlie - has informed him that his shoulder’s going to be an issue for a while yet. 

It seems like Benny’s the unofficial leader of this town now. Dean hasn’t seen any sign of the officials that used to police the Zone properly, not that he minds too much; he has every faith in Benny’s ability to lead. He’s a good, fair guy, and he won’t make mistakes. 

He’s talking to someone Dean only vaguely recognises when they approach. Dean gently pushes Cas off, wobbling on his own two feet before he finds his balance. “Hey, Benny, mind if I talk to you?” 

Benny’s conversational partner leaves, apparently done anyway, as he turns towards Dean and raises an eyebrow. “You sure you should be outta bed, brother?” 

“I’m fine.” He waves a hand, which quickly ends up latching onto Benny’s shoulder for balance. A hand lands between his shoulder blades - Cas’. “I’m okay, Cas. Go check on Sammy for me. I’ll be fine.” 

Cas hesitates but honours his request, giving him a small nod before he leaves. Dean lets out a little puff of breath and turns back to Benny. 

“Have a seat, brother,” Benny says, tilting his head towards a pair of upturned crates. Maybe this is some kind of meeting area, then, since it seems designed for it: secluded, private, and relatively comfortable. Dean sinks down onto one of the crates, stretching his injured leg out in front of himself with a sigh. “What’d you wanna talk about?” 

Dean licks his lips, steeling himself. “What happened to Zone 23 while I was gone?” 

Benny sighs, leaning back to sit against the wall. He lifts a hand to rub his palm across his stubble, the scraping sound audible even in their echoing base. “Things didn’t go sour ‘till a couple’a weeks later, and they really went downhill when they did. Turned out we had a mole in our ranks, workin’ in strategy.” 

“Who was it?” 

“D’you remember Metatron?” 

Dean snorts. “It’d be hard to forget him. He’s kinda distinctive. Weird name, weird face.” 

“Turns out he was one of those Angels.” Benny shrugs. “Don’t mean no offence by it, brother; I’m sure yours are nice guys. He turned us over to the Angels with some crap about the cure bein’ in the Zone.” 

“Ah.” Dean winces. “That’d be about Sam, probably. I bet the Angels fed him info when we broke outta there. They want Sam back.” 

“So it’s true, huh? zombies got him?” Benny lets out a soft hum of thought. “How long’s it been now?” 

“Fuck, I dunno. Has to be a couple of months. I lost track of time in the Angel place.” Dean cocks his head a little, eyebrows raised. “How long’s it been since we left the Zone?” 

“It’s near three months now, brother.” 

Benny’s tone conveys regret, and his sigh as he glances away holds stories. Dean doesn’t have to ask; his patient silence is enough to get Benny to speak. “We lost some good people when the gates opened, brother.” 

“Any I’d recognise?” 

Dean already knows what he’s going to say when his expression darkens further. “Bobby and your brother’s girl, Jessica. I had to put ‘em down myself. Bless Bobby’s cranky old soul, he was still fightin’ the infection when I got there. He told me to tell you and Sam somethin’, too.” 

Benny looks up, as if to make sure that Dean’s looking, before he speaks. “He said you two were the best damn sons he never asked for. Comin’ from Bobby, I’d say that’s one heck of a compliment.” 

Dean’s breath hitches in his throat at the words, at Bobby’s acceptance even as he struggled to stay sane. It means a lot, especially given John’s failed attempt to bring them up. Bobby was the first proper father figure that they’d had after Mary’s death, and Dean’s grateful that he had the chance to meet him, at least. He just wishes he could have been here; maybe his presence could have helped to keep him – and Jess – alive. 

“You don’t seem surprised.” 

Dean looks up to see Benny watching, his brows furrowed slightly. He shrugs. “The Angels spouted some crap to us about having already destroyed the Zone.” He huffs, looking away. “Guess they were sort of right.” 

“Wouldn’t have made it if it hadn’t been for the next Zone over,” Benny adds. “They got our distress signal just in the nick of time. You’ve met their doctor already.” 

Charlie is an excitable young woman, and Dean had warmed to her upon first meeting her. While checking his various injuries, she’d kept Dean laughing, distracting him from the twinges of pain. 

“She’s great,” Dean says, smiling now, painful thoughts behind him. 

“She’s smart, too,” Benny agrees. “Not just a doctor, either. I’m sure she’ll be one of the people to figure somethin’ out thanks to your brother’s blood.” 

If something can be made of this anomaly, if Sam is okay with donating his blood for the greater good, Dean thinks that he might just be able to relax about it. What he didn’t like about the Angels was that they forced it; they gave Sam no opportunity to opt out of anything, forcing him into a coma when he refused to comply. As time has worn on since he’s woken from his enforced sleep, Sam’s become stronger again, returning to his old self. 

That is enough to make Dean smile. 

* * *

Not everything is perfect with Sam, though. Sometimes, Dean catches him in mourning. 

It’s not the deep, gut-wrenching cries of a freshly broken heart. No, what Dean discovers now and again is a lot more chilling. Sam will simply sit on his bed, staring into space, his expression guarded and cold as he remains silent. In the right light, Dean can see the shine of unshed tears in his eyes. Dean told him the story of hers and Bobby’s deaths in hushed tones, and he’d accepted them without question. 

He still does what’s asked of him, and Sam doesn’t seem to let himself linger over Jess’ death. Sam offers his blood to Charlie, he helps the Zone reinforce its defences in the warehouse, and he offers what fighting knowledge he has to the younger adults around. 

Dean has none of this. 

Charlie has him officially off-duty. She’s not letting him work at all, which means he has nothing to do to get rid of the itchy boredom under his skin; even Cas has taken her words to heart, giving Dean nothing more than affectionate little kisses, so sex is also off the table. His head is fine now, healed and leaving him with no ill effects; his ankle, she says, will likely ache for weeks to come. 

His shoulder may never be the same as it used to. 

“You realise that’s not gonna stop me, right?” he asks, raising his eyebrows at her words. 

Charlie smirks, shoving her hands into the pockets of her grubby lab coat. “Oh, I know. I’m just giving you my professional opinion. Maybe you could even call it motivation.” 

Dean, never one to turn down a challenge, even an implicit one, accepts. He begins a careful daily routine, guided by Charlie herself, of working the damaged muscles in both his shoulder and his ankle. He knows that he won’t be happy stuck in this warehouse forever, even if the foundations of his home are here. 

Dean wants the open air, a gun in his hand, and Cas at his side. It’s an image he’s been lingering over ever since Cas’ fond touches have become a regular thing. He gets hugs and kisses and cuddles when he persuades Cas that it’s okay for him to join him on his makeshift hospital bed (but he kicks him out when he starts trying to sleep there, because it really isn’t made for two people, as much as Dean wishes it were so). The fact that Cas has stayed with him for so long despite their trials and injuries is enough to carve him out a place in Dean’s heart. 

* * *

The curtains shriek against their rail as they’re yanked back, disturbing Dean from his slumber. He growls, flinging a forearm across his face to shield himself from the light filtering through. 

He can’t do anything about Charlie’s cheery chirp, though. 

“Rise and shine! How’s my favourite patient doing?” 

Dean stuffs his face into his pillow, simply replying with, “Nng.” 

“Get your ass out of bed,” she says, tone sterner this time. “It’ll be worth it, promise.” 

“Sleep’s better,” he throws back, voice muffled. 

“I’ll let Cas do your physical.” 

Dean raises his head, eyes narrowed at the young woman stood before him, hands on her hips in an attempt to be intimidating. “You’re lying,” he replies eventually. 

She grins, unabashed. “Yep. Up.” 

Sighing heavily, Dean pushes the covers back, wondering silently if throwing a pillow at her would’ve helped her to leave. The mention of Cas stepping in to take her place would’ve woken him up, certainly; it’s been weeks since their mutual handjob in the dark, and while the little bits and pieces of affection have been nice, Dean’s been itching for more. 

Charlie, bless her, has listened to every complaint his made in reference to that, although her amused smiles have been grating on his patience a little. 

Once he’s sat up, Charlie drops to her knees to roll up the hem of his jeans so she can see his ankle. She runs gentle fingers over the scarring skin, her quiet mutters giving Dean an insight into her brilliant mind as she gives herself a running commentary. 

“No signs of infection… healing over well…” she murmurs, biting her lower lip. After a moment of silence, Charlie gives a little nod. “Yep, I think you’re good to go with the ankle, Dean.” 

He sighs with relief. “Fuckin’ finally. And my shoulder?” 

“Just keep doing what you’ve been doing, and I’ll check on it now and again just to be sure.” Charlie stands, offering him a smile. “I’d say we can officially sign you out.” 

“Perfect.” Dean stands, pleased when his ankle demonstrates its ability to hold his weight again, and grins back at her. “Thanks, Charlie.” 

“Anytime.” 

Her smile turns sly as she digs in her pocket, and when she grasps Dean’s hand with her other to transfer something to his, she winks. “Now, I know you’re gonna wanna celebrate your physical fitness with Cas, so when you do, do us all a favour: _lock the door_. This is a shared space, Dean.” 

His cheeks burn, embarrassed at being caught out on his plan before he can even think of a suitable innuendo about it. She leaves without another word, leaving him to look down at her parting gift. 

A little square packet of lube. 

Dean doesn’t know whether to curse her or thank her, so he settles on the former. 

* * *

Before Dean goes to tell Cas the news of his freedom, he goes to find Sam. 

He finds him in Charlie’s little laboratory with her assistant. As she’s dabbling in both medical science and whatever she does to discover a cure, she’s had to team up with Zone 23’s resident expert: Garth. He’s not a doctor – he freely admitted that he only has sparing medical experience – but he’s eager to learn and to help, so his enthusiasm and care more than makes up for what he doesn’t know. Charlie teaches him on the fly. 

In the apocalypse, that’s better than no doctor at all. Doctors are coveted because there are so few, the majority of them overwhelmed twenty years ago when bitten people flocked to surgeries for help before turning. 

As Dean wanders in, he can’t help comparing the equipment to that of the Angels. It’s nowhere near as new or advanced, unfortunately, but Dean’s more grateful for the pure motivation behind its use. Sam can leave at any time, even though it would be a selfish move, one that Dean’s not sure he’d ever make. 

Something clatters to the floor from deeper in the lab, and Dean winces. Sam, sat on a stool, raises his head, frowning into the darker recess of it, out of the candlelight’s reach. “Garth? You okay?” 

“I’m fine!” he calls back, his distinctive drawl colouring his voice. “I just slipped! Don’t you worry yourself over nothin’, Sam!” 

Dean and Sam both chuckle, which catches the latter’s attention. He’s not had an opportunity to speak in depth to his brother since they arrived here, and Dean thinks that he’s got a little bit of explaining left to do; Cas said that he filled Sam in on the extent of Zone 23’s destruction, which Dean’s grateful for, because that meant he didn’t have to break Sam’s heart himself. 

Sam’s reaction is both genuinely surprising and pleasing. He stands, crosses the small distance between his stool and the door, and pulls Dean into a warm hug. Dean stands still for a moment in his shock before he returns it, slapping Sam’s back as he grins. 

“Hey,” Sam greets when he withdraws, smiling. “How’re you feeling?” 

“Better now I’m officially outta hospital. Again.” Dean raises his eyebrows. “You?” 

Sam huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I’m… I’m okay. I’m not dead yet.” 

“And it don’t look like you will be, neither!” Garth shouts from across the room. There’s another clatter, followed by a hushed, “Darn it.” 

Dean can’t help smiling again at that. Judging by the pinched corners of Sam’s mouth, he’s trying not to. 

“So, what now?” Sam asks. “What are you gonna do?” 

He shrugs. “Not sure yet. I’ve gotta hang around because Charlie wants to keep an eye on my shoulder, and Benny said there was talk of clearing the Zone and building it up again. I’d be up for that.” 

“And Cas?” Sam prompts. 

Dean feels warmth in his chest just at the mere mention of the ex-Angel. It’s his turn to suppress a smile. 

“Cas is Cas,” Dean says simply. His grin spreads wider as he backs towards the doorway. “By the way, you might wanna, y’know, vacate the shared room for a little while.” 

“What- Wait.” Sam holds up a hand, his expression becoming incredulous. “You’re not going to-?” 

Dean’s smirk says it all. “Oh, I’m going to.” 

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh. “At least air the room after.” 

With a cheeky salute, Dean ducks out of the lab. “Sure thing.” 

* * *

Dean finds Cas outside their room. He’s just coming out, glancing left and right, when he spots Dean making his way over. A smile makes its way across Dean’s lips when he sees the relief pass over Cas’ features - as if Dean would ever leave without telling him where he’s going. Dean’s in too deep with Cas now.

Maybe, he thinks, maybe he could even be counted among the people that Dean truly loves. He loves Sam as a brother and he used to love him a bit like a son; he loved Bobby like a father; he loves Charlie and Benny as adoptive siblings. 

He loves Cas in a completely different way. It fills him up and leaves him glowing with that affection, and it sits behind his ribs, burning brighter whenever he sees him. 

Dean thinks he could definitely get used to the idea of spending the rest of his days with Cas. Even if they don’t fix the planet, he’ll be content. He’s done his part. It’s time to do something for himself now. 

Once he’s close enough, he draws Cas in for a kiss. It’s chaste and sweet, and Cas makes a wonderful little surprised sound against his lips before he melts into it. 

When he breaks away, Cas raises his eyebrows, a smile passing over his lips. “What was that for?” 

Dean shrugs. “Nothin’.” He smiles, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “I just love you.” 

Saying the words aloud has his heart thumping in his chest, but it’s worth it for the way Cas’ lips part in surprise only to curl up at the corners. Warmth smooths out the near-permanent frown lines in his handsome face. 

Cas reaches up, tangling his fingers in the collar of Dean’s jacket. “I love you, too,” he replies. 

The reply has that heat in Dean’s chest leaping with joy, settling in to stay. 

Then Cas’ lips are on his again, and the heat flares out to swallow him up. 

As Cas backs up, pulling Dean into the little shared bedroom, he can’t help cataloguing the differences between this time and their last when their kiss held this kind of intensity. It’s just as passionate and it gets Dean’s heart racing just as fast, but it’s less… desperate. Before, there wasn’t as much certainty concerning their safety, so they couldn’t take the time to learn each other. 

But this time, there’s no pressure. There’s nothing stopping them from going slow. 

Dean feels Cas’ arm brush past his to turn the lock on the door, preventing anyone from walking in. He sighs, reaching up to comb his fingers into Cas’ hair as he parts his lips to grant Cas entry; Cas’ hair is getting longer, long enough that Dean can loop it around his fingers a little now, and, truth be told, Dean needs a haircut as well. 

The soft slide of lips and tongue is exactly what Dean’s been craving, but now he’s here the hunger has quieted. He’s glad for that; he wants to savour this. 

It only takes a gentle push to get Cas moving again, towards the bed he knows his Angel has been using. Before he’d left, Dean had stowed Charlie’s gift under the pillows, ready for convenience’s sake. 

When Cas’ legs touch the edge of his cot, he turns them, making Dean the one to go down on his back - only he sits up again almost immediately to strip himself of his shirt and toss it to the floor. 

What he _doesn’t_ expect is for Cas to look startled. 

It’s only when Cas’ fingers brush over the gauze taped to his shoulder that Dean remembers his injury. He flinches a little, and Cas’ lips pinch. “Sorry.” 

“No, it’s fine, just be careful.” Dean makes himself relax, moving forwards again so Cas’ skin touches his. He smirks a little, trying for humour. “Guess we’ll have to save the rough stuff for later, huh?” 

Thankfully, Cas takes the out for what it is. Dean will let him know if Cas is hurting him; he’s not one to keep his complaints to himself on that one. 

Cas’ hands settle on Dean’s cheeks, which he tilts up with a gentle touch. He takes a moment to just look, it seems like, which has a blush rising before Dean can press it down. Cas looks at him like he has answers written in the alignment of his freckles, and Dean really wouldn’t be surprised if Cas came up with something romantic and sappy like that. 

He can’t stand to have the attention, so he grabs the hem of Cas’ shirt and pulls it up, effectively hiding himself from view while moving things along. 

Either Cas takes the hint again - bless him - or he’s just really easily distracted with the promise of sex. Both results are good with Dean, since it gives him Cas carefully moving to kneel over him as he settles on his back. 

Like last time, it starts with them like that, kissing and rutting against one another, but when hands move into pants this time it’s with a different motivation. Dean’s jeans and underwear quickly join their shirts on the floor (and Cas takes more care than is really needed when he gets the articles of clothing past Dean’s ankle, but he just rolls his eyes and lets him). Cas ends up sat there for a moment, considering their options, until Dean produces the bottle of lube and offers it to him with a grin. 

Cas raises his eyebrows as he takes it, turning it over in his hands. “Where did you get this?” 

Dean chuckles. “Let’s just say Charlie has good intentions, but zero tact.” 

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Cas smiles fondly down at the little bottle. “Although I’m rather glad she had the foresight to give you this.” 

So is Dean. The first slick slide of fingers has him gasping in unexpected pleasure. Cas soothes him with a palm brushing up and down his calf - well, he tries. The simple realisation of what’s coming has Dean grasping for Cas again, pulling him up so their lips can meet. 

Cas kisses him throughout the preparation, distracting him from the slight sting with each new stretch. Dean doesn’t mind the brief pain so much; Cas soothes it quickly, and there’s a slight sweetness to it. 

It doesn’t even compare to the moment when Cas finally presses inside. Dean grips his shoulders, holding on as a moan rattles in his chest. It’s all too good, Cas is too good; Dean knows he’s lucky to have Cas return his love, and in all honesty, he doesn’t really think he’ll ever deserve him. 

“Stop thinking,” Cas murmurs, lips brushing his ear. “Just for now.” 

So Dean does. He focuses on how everything feels - how full he feels, how good it is when Cas rocks _just right_ , how it makes him tingle with pleasure to hear Cas’ groans. When it all comes to a crashing, grinding halt with their peaks, it feels like falling. 

Dean hates heights usually, but this kind of falling isn’t so bad. 

* * *

Once they have the energy, they clean up and unlock the door, but make no effort to leave. They tumble back into Cas’ bed, curled up around each other contently. No words need to be said here; Dean know Cas is prepared to go with him wherever their journey takes the, whether that’s to stay here with Zone 23 or to move on. Maybe they’ll take down the Demons or the Angels - there’s nothing to say that they can’t do either. 

For now, though, Dean is happy here, with Cas breathing softly against his shoulder as he drifts into sleep. He never really understood how Sam could settle down, but now he really thinks he does get it. Before sleep takes him too, Dean accepts the realisation that everything he really wants is right here. 

* * *

The last gunshot fades into silence, the sharp crack of it leaving Dean’s ears ringing a little, as usual. It’s Sam’s shotgun that caused the sound; Dean’s only carrying pistols, since anything with more kick would likely damage his still-healing shoulder. 

The zombie drops lifelessly to the floor, twitching briefly before it falls still. It’s the last one in the broken down Zone 23, the rest already killed. A bonfire is being constructed near the gates, since burning is really the only safe way to dispose of the toxic corpses. It’s also a reassurance that they can’t rise again, because even with their brains destroyed, Dean knows the creeping, crawling feeling of _what if_. 

Benny finally gave the orders to clear out the Zone to begin reconstruction. Dean offered his assistance, as did Cas, Sam, and Gabriel - Gabe now, as he too shrugged off his Angelic roots. It added to the small team with Charlie and Garth on standby back in one of the trucks, just in case an opportunity comes for them to test the first serum they’ve made. 

Jokingly, Dean had asked Benny, _”What are we? If there are Angels and Demons, what does that make us?”_

Benny had thought genuinely about it for a moment before he’d replied, _“We’re Free Will, brother. We don’t police who comes ‘n’ who goes, so long as they don’t cause us trouble. There’s choice here._

The words having been stewing in Dean’s mind since Benny said them, turning over and over until they’re just a jumble of meaningless sounds. Dean’s always been on the move, his only base being Zone 23 - it wasn’t a home, it was just a place to return to so he could restock on what he needed before leaving again. 

This new Zone 23 they’re constructing could be one, though. A home. 

Now that the danger is gone, he watches as Sam raises his head, searching through the town for something. He sees the moment when his expression becomes smooth with understanding, and he follows as Sam begins walking towards a certain building. 

Dean recognises it. It’s the one he broke into all those months ago when he wanted Sam’s help finding John. Part of him still regrets it, but it all turned out fine, didn’t it? Sam’s alive and helping the world, and Dean wouldn’t have found Cas without it. 

Maybe that’s selfish of him to think that. Sam wouldn’t have died with Jess though; he’d have had to watch her turn while he stayed completely human. Maybe, Dean thinks, it’s not selfish of him, because he spared Sam that, at least. 

Before Dean can approach Sam and offer some comfort, someone else does it for him. Gabe has his gun lowered and at his side as he walks across the blood-splattered ground to reach Sam. Wordlessly, he takes his hand as Sam stares at the ruins of his home, lacing their fingers together in a way that looks familiar. 

Dean smiles a little. He doesn’t know what the deal is with Sam and Gabe, but as long as the latter looks after his brother, Dean does’t mind. 

A hand slips into his own, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

“Are you alright, Dean?” Cas asks quietly. He releases his hand, only to lightly touch his sleeve. “How’s your shoulder?” 

“Fine. Doesn’t hurt or ache.” Dean casts him a fond smile. “Stop worrying, dude. I’m okay.” 

“Excuse me for being concerned about your bullet wound,” Cas huffs, raising his eyebrows, but a smile twitches at the corners of his lips. 

“Trust me, Cas, I’d let you know if I wasn’t fine.” Dean chuckles, tucking his hands into his pockets. He sighs, letting the smile slip a little. “So, what now?” 

Cas tilts his head, brow furrowing. “What do you mean?” 

“Where do we go now?” Dean turns to him, expression open and honest. “Do you wanna stay here and help with the Zone? I don’t mind, Cas, I really don’t.” 

Understanding passes over Cas’ features. His hands settle on Dean’s forearms since his hands are in his pockets, fingers curling into his sleeves a little. “Dean,” Cas says, a smile curling at his lips, “this is your home. If you want to stay here, we will. If you want to move on, we will. This is your choice to make. You have people you know and care about here-” 

“You have your Angels.” 

Cas shrugs. “Unimportant. They’d understand.” 

Dean hesitates. He knows what he wants, but there’s still that nagging feeling of duty in the back of his mind. 

And yet. 

He looks at Sam and Gabe again, and how Gabe now has his head resting against Sam’s arm. He looks at the Zone and all the work that needs to be done. He looks at Cas, taking in the sight of his patiently expectant face. 

He looks at himself and his own wants. 

“Let’s stay.” 

* * *

So yes, Dean’s life has always been grey. It’s the colour the skies should be to reflect the state of the planet; it’s the colour of the eyes that belong to the zombies, the dead that stagger among the living; it’s the colour he has associated with most things since the age of four. 

Even now, closer to thirty than he was a few months ago, he can recall the simple colours of his mother’s hair and the fire that consumed their home. He still can’t remember the progression of a healthy world to one down the drain. It still bothers him that he can’t do much more than he’s already doing to help. 

But now there’s light in that grey. There’s colour and joy and love, all in the form of the family he’s assembled. And, honestly, despite the state of the planet and the complicated politics that Dean still doesn’t quite understand, he’s never felt more at home. 

_Home._ What an odd word. He didn’t have one until now.


End file.
